


Sherlock & the Baby: What's the Worst that Could Happen @ Baker St.

by JAT1981, SherlockedCAMPer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Plot Twists, Post-His Last Vow, Sherlock helps raise a baby, What's the worst that could happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 75,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAT1981/pseuds/JAT1981, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockedCAMPer/pseuds/SherlockedCAMPer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something happens to Mary and Sherlock ends up helping John raise Baby Watson named Sheralyn (name taken from sfmpco's Blackbird Series).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rest of the co-authors go by Arcadia, Inge, & SherlockandJohn.
> 
> This story was started on the SherlockForum. And what I wrote there at the beginning: I've thought about this for awhile and decided we needed a story that is told in sections as can happen at camp or sleepovers where 1 person starts then another continues where the 1st left off. I'll start the story then the next person will continue where I left off and so on and so forth. There are no specific character roles that a person will play (hence not being in the RPG area). We cover all of them as we write the story together. You can contribute a little or a lot. (And with the occasional 2+ people posting at the same time, the story could be very interesting rather quickly. Also there is no need to apologize if that happens. The story will just be more interesting even if it does seem confusing at times. We will make it work and have fun doing so. Because having fun is mandatory :D) Also all Sherlock characters from the show currently living (& Moriarty in his in limbo state) are available to be used in the story. 
> 
> As we update the story on the forum, I will get updated here. -SherlockedCAMPer
> 
> All characters unless otherwise noted belong to ACD and/or BBC/Hartswood Films

John arrived back home after taking Sheralyn out for a short stroll through the nearby park. He had watched their daughter that afternoon so Mary could have a break. She had done so much with watching the baby while John worked that she earned a little time for rest and relaxation. He made sure that Mary had those times each week so she could be the best mom and wife possible. He had seen enough moms on the verge of burnout because they did not receive a break to take care of themselves. However, he was not expecting to see what he found when he got back. 

Sitting on the coffee table was a note that seemed written in a hurry. It looked like Mary's writing only more frantic than normal. A look of concerned washed over John's face as he read:

Sorry to do this to you dear husband. Something came up. Can't explain. Hope you understand. Don't know if I'll be in touch. I hate to do this to you. Give my love to Sheralyn.  
~Mary

John was not completely sure what to do. He tried to contact Sherlock who was not answering his phone again. He grabbed Sheralyn and a few things for her diaper bag before running out the door. He was thankful Mary had thought of bottles even though she was nursing. He made a quick stop at Tesco before continuing on to 221B. John needed formula as there had been nothing for Sheralyn at their place and it was almost her normal feeding time.

A few minutes later John arrived with Sheralyn at Baker St. He ran up the stairs with the car seat on 1 arm and all the other baby gear on the other. He barged into the flat to see Sherlock lost in thought on the sofa. "Sherlock? Sherlock. Did you hear the phone at all? I tried calling you. I even left a voice message as well as a text."

"Sorry, did you say something? I was meditating. The phone is in the fridge as it was making too much noise and I couldn't concentrate." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Mary is gone."

Sherlock abruptly turned his head towards John with a frown. "What?"

The floor creaked under John's feet as he crossed it and sat himself and Sheralyn down in the chair that used to be his. "She is gone. Took off. Left a note saying that... well, saying nothing! She's gone, she just left, no explanation, nothing! Just that she had to go." John was panting by the time he finished. He looked at Sherlock expectantly. The detective stared back at him with a piercing gaze.

For a moment the flat was quiet, except for the rustle of clothes from the baby wriggling on her father's lap. "Has she said anything to -"

"No."

"Maybe not today, but in the last few days?" Sherlock kept pressing. "Or done anything unusual?" John simply shook his head in disbelief.

"Alright, John, just... think for a moment. There has to be something. What did she take with her?"  
The question took John by surprise. He hadn't even stopped to look before he had left his flat. "I don't know."

"Let's go." Sherlock was up on his feet at once, grabbing his coat and scarf. John followed with Sheralyn and the diaper bag in his arms.

"We need to search the flat thoroughly," Sherlock continued gravely. Then they headed down the stairs and out into the street. John closed the front door behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hailed a cab as John descended to the sidewalk. At that very moment, a girl on a unicycle came barreling out of nowhere. Sherlock, with his usual agility, neatly stepped out of her way. Not so John, who was concentrating on balancing Sheralyn and the diaper bag. Man and unicycle collided with a loud thump, John cried out, and Sheralyn, screaming wildly, went flying through the air to be caught neatly in Uncle Sherlock's arms, who had reacted with his usual agility to perform a flying tackle and still land on two feet, while both father and daughter screamed in fright! 

Unfortunately, Sherlock's momentum carried him directly into the path of the oncoming taxi. The cabbie slammed on the brakes stopping just inches from Sherlock and Sheralyn. Sherlock had rolled as he landed to protect Sheralyn from the oncoming cab. The cabbie quickly got out of his cab to check on Sherlock. "You OK sir? I saw you catch the baby and fall. Good catch by the way. How's the li'l one?"

Sherlock did not respond immediately by voice. He moved slightly checking on Sheralyn visually as well as making sure he wasn't to worse for the ware. "I'll be fine and I think my niece will be as well. Could I get a help up please? Don't want to let go of her." He said as he held her securely. He was going to make sure that Sheralyn was properly strapped in the car seat next time. John was obviously not focused enough at the moment for that task.

John, in fact, was still tangled up with the girl and the unicycle. As Sherlock turned to check on John, the cabbie smiled malevolently behind his back, and appeared to be signaling the girl with a hand gesture. The girl sat up and drew a Peacemaker Colt revolver from the pocket of her Macintosh, leveling the gun at Sherlock, who was still holding little Sheralyn in both arms.

Sherlock swung around pushing the cabbie in front of him, managing to hold him with his right arm while holding Sheralyn securely with his left. Sherlock could tell by how the cabbie was moving that he had a bullet proof vest on that would keep Sherlock & Sheralyn safe from the would be attacker. "Do you really want to do that? Enough people saw the incident that a London ambulance will be here within another couple of minutes or so. Besides if it is Mary that you want, good luck in finding her."  
While Sherlock had been talking he had made a subtle gesture with his eyes to John. John blinked back in understanding. He had still been somewhat wrapped up in the potential shooter even though she was sitting. John managed to grab the unicycle and hit her in the head from behind before she could react. The cabbie wasn't able to make much of a sound because of how Sherlock had him in a headlock.  
Sheralyn giggled.

The attacker went down and the gun skidding along the sidewalk stopping on the far side of Speedy's. John was able to free himself from the attacker's legs and get to the gun. He trained it on the cabbie and motioned him to sit near the would-be-assassin. Sherlock proceeded to call NSY to get some of their least irritating officers over there to take care of the 2 and to tow away the cab.

After he hung up, Sherlock realized that his giggling niece now needed her nappy changed. At which point, he neatly placed her in her father's hands under the pretext that he really had to see to it that the car seat was properly secured for their next venture in the streets of London.

Unprepared for this maneuver, John fumbled the gun and it fell to the sidewalk. Girl, cabbie and Sherlock all dove for it as it hit the concrete and went off, hitting the cabbie in the head and opening a sizeable wound in his forehead, whereupon he fell dead on the pavement, because it is the kind of nasty weapon that does not make for neat little puncture wounds, like a Mauser or a Luger, as its large and unjacketed soft-nosed lead bullet mushrooms on impact, tearing and smashing bone and muscle and tissue as it goes, expending all its energy on the target.

"Oops," said John.

Sherlock scooped up the gun and scratched his head with it. "Brilliant, John, now we can't question him."

"You were the one who suddenly thrust a baby in my arms!"

"You're her father!"

"I'm having a bad day!"

The girl had been frozen in horror, staring at the gory remains of the cabbie. Slowly she became aware of the two men arguing next to her, and realized no one was paying her any attention. Carefully, she rose to her feet and began to creep away. Immediately, a long arm shot out and grabbed her by the collar.

"Going somewhere?" asked Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

"I - I - look, I had nothing to do with this ..." Sherlock raised his other eyebrow.

"Nope." Sherlock said popping his P as usual. "Try again. I'm no fool. Someone put you up to it, now spill it. Whose idea was this whole thing? A baby was almost killed. You wouldn't want that on your conscience. You're a broke uni student needing some money. You're studying child development and love kids. " Sherlock was getting a little louder and more stern as he spoke.

"I...I...um...sorry." She barely got that out before breaking down into tears sobbing uncontrollably. 

Lestrade arrived with a couple of other squad cars just as the ambulance pulled up. "Took you guys long enough. Did Mycroft try to start a war again? The ambulance should have been here 2 minutes ago." Sherlock stated tetchily. "Oh and the cabbie was accidentally shot by the revolver that was supposed to be used against me. It fell to the ground and went off in the process. Here it is by the way. Also glad that wasn't used by my attempted assailant several months ago. You're going to want to take her in. She was part of the plot somehow." Lestrade just stood there in shock seeing what was left of the cabbie's head and the mess in front of 221B and suddenly the soup he'd had for lunch was coming back for another visit, and he threw up. On Sherlock.

Whereupon Sherlock decided that the whole thing was just a waste of time, retrieved Sheralyn from John's arms, started to go up to the flat, determined to shed coat and suit to be sent off to the dry-cleaners' and to see to it that the poor little dear did not get a nappy rash just because he, John and Lestrade were thrashing out their issues on the pavement.

Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of her ground-floor flat, only to be brushed off brusquely with a "Shut up, Mrs. Hudson, you are formulating a question again and I have other things to see to that require my immediate attention!"

He marched up the seventeen steps to the flat, laid a plainly squirming Sheralyn on the kitchen table, went to his bedroom to strip down to his black boxer shorts, then came out to pick her up in his arms again, took her to the bathroom, because there he would not need a pair of tongs to dispose of her soiled nappy, threw the offending item in the waste bin, and then went under the shower, with his hands still wrapped protectively around her, in order to get them both cleaned up, when his fine hearing told him, despite the running water and Sheralyn's squeals under the warm spray of water that a set of footsteps could be heard going up the stairs.

He recognized the footsteps immediately. They were not John's, Mrs. Hudson's, Mycroft's nor any one from the crime scene. He quickly got out of the shower, dried Sheralyn off, and got a new nappy on her before quickly getting changed himself. 

"Sorry to not have the tea ready as usual despite the fact that you’re supposed to be dead." Sherlock said in his usual deductive tone as a person who looked, acted, sounded like Moriarty walked into the flat.

"You know, your pet is right about you. For a genius you can be remarkably thick!" The soft Irish voice was unmistakable, and since Sherlock had always had perfect pitch, it made him terribly uneasy. Unless Jim had an identical twin, this was his erstwhile Nemesis in the flesh! 

In order to keep his hands occupied, while he struggled to deal with the implications and repercussions of this otherworldly appearance, he busied himself dressing the baby, while she giggled and squirmed, eluding his nervous fingers. 

"If you are who you pretend to be, then I fail to see the purpose of your visit," he replied, not liking the way he could not quite control his voice.

"What an inane remark, Doofus! First, I had hoped that you would thank me for saving your sorry carcass from certain death, and second, I have come to take my daughter back."

"Are you crazy? Sorry, I forgot to whom I was talking! Your daughter, how can she be your daughter?"

"The same way dear Abby was one of my snipers in that little game of ours by the pool, and my bedmate all this time."

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again," mused Sherlock. So that was the secret Magnussen held over Mary's head. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"You may congratulate yourself on your choice of marksmen, or rather marksperson in this case, she did manage to shoot me of her own volition, but you are not getting your hands on this baby while I live and breathe! I can't see you bringing a paternity suit in a British court of law, not in this world at least!"

"Try me!" came the answer.

Sherlock was dumbfounded briefly. He studied Sheralyn for a few moments eyeing every part of her. The closest thing she had to looking like John was her hair but that could have been based on Mary's hair easily enough. He looked closer at Sheralyn's face and realized that the eyes were definitely not John's nor Mary's. Her eyes had changed from the blue that most are born with over to a dark brown just like Jim's.

While Sherlock took the baby's head in his hands and looked intently into those soft brown eyes flecked with gold and green tints, so much like Jim's...Moriarty's, he corrected himself, John was coming up to the flat, and if Sherlock was right the second pair of footsteps belonged to Mrs. Hudson. 

"Sherlock, Lestrade has taken that girl into custody...", John's voice trailed off at sight of the dapper figure across the kitchen table from Sherlock. 

"What is that madman doing here? How can he be here, in the first place?" his voice rose in flabbergasted indignation. 

"Dear Dr., it is a pleasure to see you, too" came the quick retort. "As I was explaining to your friend, whose power of reasoning, as well as that of deduction, seems to have deserted him, I have come to take my daughter back. Dear Abby has vanished off the face of the Earth, and if you think for a moment that I am prepared to leave the tiny tot in the hands of a damaged and delusional genius and yourself, you are sadly mistaken. I had hoped to pull this off with my little abduction setup in the street, but it backfired, no pun intended." 

John turned to Sherlock in astonishment, and the detective sighed: "Jim claims that Mary... Abby, he calls her, was his lover all this time, since he tried to blow you up, John." 

John whirled to face Moriarty: "How is that possible? We worked together for almost two years, we slept together ..."

"Really, Sherlock, your pet isn't improving with age! Every single time Abby said she was visiting her friend Cath, she came to my secret abode, right here in London. If you have five bolt holes, I can afford so many more, you know."


	3. Chapter 3

At this point, Sherlock picked up the baby, fumbled with the back of her coverall and flung her at Mrs. Hudson, who reflexively caught the gleefully squealing little girl in her arms.

"This may not be an impressive firearm, dear Jim, but if I press the trigger of my Derringer now, your brains will be splattered all over Mrs. Hudson's cupboards, and we wouldn't want that, would we?" said Sherlock almost conversationally, taking careful aim. It was at this impasse that John found his voice again.

"Sherlock, it was bad enough when we thought we had lost you because the madman forced you to jumps right in front of me, it was even more heartbreaking when you threw your logic to the wind and just pulled the trigger on that blackmailing scum, but I will simply not stand by and watch you throw your life away a third time just for the pleasure of ridding the world of this monster!", he said and siding up to his friend, he tugged at the small gun so that it was not aiming at Moriarty's forehead.

"John, please, you don't understand... Jim... Moriarty wants to take the baby on his say-so! Who can tell if he's not hoodwinking us again?"

"Oh, and your solution is to shoot him and claim self-defence?"

"Well, you are the one to talk! You and your high moral principles! You shot that cabbie to protect me, why should I not shoot to protect Mary's baby? My vow was made to both of you!"

"Since you boys are involved in a little domestic argument, I think this is a good time I made myself scarce with my little bundle of joy," the Irish lilt grated on their ears, as Moriarty made a lunge for Mrs. Hudson and the baby.

Mrs. Hudson, having been around Sherlock long enough, made a slight turn and stuck out her foot at just the right angle to trip up Moriarty and get him in the face with the heel of her shoe. He immediately put his hands to his face in pain. He had blood dripping from somewhere and had no idea where. Sherlock took the opportunity to pin Moriarty to the ground while calling Mycroft to get to Baker St. because of their little friend. He also called Lestrade to see if he was still outside because a set of cuffs would be brilliant.

"It is gratifying to know that I can still command your complete attention, Sherlock, but if you don't release your hold this minute, both Mrs. Hudson and your protégée are going to be taken out for good! Or did you not notice me sticking that little bit of gelignite on Mrs. Hudson's cardigan as she came into the room?" In a way, Jim's Irish lilt had begun to grate on Sherlock's ears.

"You would be willing to blow up your own daughter, according to your assertion, just to get back at me?"

"Finder’s keepers, my dear! I still have the hammer and several willing anvils to create another mini-me, but the question remains, this is Mary's daughter's life you are putting on the line. Are you ruthless enough to proceed? You once said that you were prepared to burn, are you still on in this little game of ours, prepared to have me burn the heart out of you? Just nod, and everything ends right here, right now! I would rather blow all of us into the middle of next week than be recaptured by your dear brother! Your choice, Sexy!" 

What Jim didn't notice during Sherlock's question, was that Sherlock had made a signal to Mrs. Hudson to shed the cardigan. She had held enough kids over the years to be able to do that without letting go of even the most wiggly child. Sherlock even made sure to have Jim's attention facing the other way which was helped by how Sherlock had him pinned.

John quietly grabbed the cardigan from Mrs. Hudson and threw it out the window that he realized had been left open when the guys were leaving earlier. While all of that was going on, Sherlock kept Jim engaged in conversation drowning out what was going on. "You realize there will be no option for anymore mini me's if you blow us all into next week. And as I've said before to someone, I've been told that I don't have a heart. That still rings true in most cases. So blow us to next week if you want, but it won't help you at all." 

"Jesus," said John to himself. He raised his voice. "Sherlock, the police are still out on the street....."

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment, then realized what John was getting at. If he taunted Moriarty into blowing up the bomb, the baby and Mrs. Hudson would be safe, but who knows how many people on the street would die. With a snarl, he pointed his gun at Moriarty's face again. Jim laughed. "Do it, Sherlock! Do it!"

Sherlock growled in disgust, raised his arm, and coshed Jim on the side of the head with the gun, knocking him out cold. "You're not worth it," he sneered. He rolled Jim onto his stomach and sat down on top of him. "John, if you would be so kind..." He waved towards a length of cord lying on his desk. John went to retrieve it, while two sets of footsteps were heard coming up the stairs.

Mycroft had arrived at the same time Lestrade was coming up the stairs with the hand cuffs. Sherlock took the cuffs as he spoke, "there’s gelignite on the cardigan tossed out the window. I do recommend a bomb squad for that. Oh and brother dear, a present for you. I just knocked him out. He won't be too happy when he wakes up. And the wound to the head was caused when he tripped over Mrs. Hudson's foot hitting the heel of her shoe. He tried to kidnap the baby."

Lestrade quickly radioed for the bomb squad during that brief moment while Mycroft raised his eyebrow in curiosity. He knew his brother was hiding something about the baby but was not going to push it at this point. 

Just as Sherlock had turned his full attention back to Sheralyn, scrutinising her as he would have a body, for telltale signs that Jim...no, blast it, Moriarty, was her physiological father, the tumult downstairs grew to a crescendo that distracted even his focused attention. "John, please go down and see what all the noise is about, I have to look after Sheralyn and make sure she did not sustain any damage after we played pass-the-parcel with her!" 

As usual, Dr Watson reflexively obeyed and left the flat. Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson, who surrendered the baby into his arms once more, leaned in and kissed his landlady on the forehead. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson; your intervention was invaluable in securing that psychopath and saving Mary's baby." 

"You are more than welcome, dear! I would never have let that worm get his paws on her! Oh dear, I do believe I used a mixed metaphor, but you get my meaning!" And then both heard John pounding up the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

Dr Watson burst in on them, caught the edge of the kitchen table to draw a deep breath and then burst out: "Dear God, Sherlock, Moriarty used your little trick with the police frequency radio to deafen them and then disappeared into a black limousine which drew up next to him, seemingly out of nowhere!"

"Copycat", Sherlock muttered, still holding Sheralyn in his arms. "What?!" Was all Sherlock could manage at first. His brother was not that inept and he knew it. "Mycroft doesn't where those ear things. He should have had Moriarty without issues. How did this happen?"

All the while he was still examining Sheralyn. He had put some of the blood from Moriarty's wound on a slide and had done a tiny pin prick to get a little from Sheralyn. He had the equipment in the flat to do a DNA test. Sherlock already had John's from the Wednesday he missed some time back before his wedding. "Mycroft jumped in the limo with him. I wouldn't say it looked 100% willing but he didn't try to get away either. And what are you doing with my daughter?"

"Moriarty tried to claim that Sheralyn was his daughter. I doubt it, but I can do the quick test. I have the equipment. He was nice enough to provide a sample thanks to Mrs. Hudson's heel." 

Dr Watson was still reeling from what he had half-witnessed and half-surmised from what the milling policemen outside the front door were still discussing, but he had enough presence of mind to react to Sherlock's assertion. "Sorry, what?"

While getting all his equipment ready with a minimum of fuss, Sherlock told John the gist of Moriarty's claim on the baby girl, trying without much success, to keep Mary's role in it as nebulous as possible. He seriously didn't know which would hurt John most: the fact that the woman he had chosen to marry had lied about her identity, [never mind about the legality of the whole thing or the money wasted on that rather grand reception, or his having to make a public speech (there were people!)] or the fact that she had consistently kept cheating on his best friend with his worst enemy.

In an honest attempt to deflect John's attention, he asked, trying to keep his voice under control:  
“John, what do you mean Mycroft got into the limousine with a handcuffed, injured, bound Moriarty? Where was the ever faithful Anthea and her carefully hidden gun?"

"Oh, Sherlock, don't be daft! How many times has Mycroft repeated that fieldwork is not his natural milieu? As far as I could see, the delectable Anthea was not in Mycroft's car, but she was in the limousine with a gun drawn. It looked a lot like the one that killed the cabbie. Now back to my daughter and Moriarty. Are you seriously trying to tell me that Mary was never faithful to me from the get go? Moriarty said Abby not Mary. Who's Abby?" Then it clicked with John. He remembered the jump drive with the initials A. G. R. A. on it. Abby had to be her first name or short for Abigail. He proceeded to sit down in his chair flabbergasted. Then the emotions started flooding his body and he was overcome with tears.

"Sorry John. I didn't know. I just figured out the eyes on Sheralyn when he mentioned something. That's why I'm testing now." Sherlock was somber. He knew enough that John was in shock. He remembered the night John found out that Mary was an assassin several months ago. "Now about Anthea, you said she was in the limo with a gun drawn? I've got to see if Mycroft will answer his phone. Well at least a text."

As Sherlock was reaching for his phone, a timer went off. He quickly grabbed the test results for the DNA analysis. He compared Sheralyn's DNA to both John's & Jim's. He then compared John's & Jim's DNA as there was a strange peculiarity about them. "Well John, the test is done. You and Jim are brothers with near identical DNA. You both come up as Sheralyn's father. Now to text Mycroft."

"Oh, you men!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. "No more sense than you were born with!"

Sherlock and John looked at her in shock. "Excuse me?"

"That child's diapers have needed changing from the moment this whole thing started, and you two just ... Oooh. Oooh!!" Furious, Mrs. Hudson stormed over to the table and snatched up Sheralyn. "I have to do everything IMPORTANT around here, you, you ... CLOTS!!” With a final glare, she stomped towards the bath, cooing gently to Sheralyn as she went. "And your father a doctor. I swear, those two ... "

John and Sherlock stared after her with identical expressions, mouths gaping, like goldfish. Sherlock recovered first. "Well, um ... yes. So…" He cleared his throat. "That was a bit ... um, not good ..."

John turned slowly and looked at him. Then it clicked with Sherlock. "Does her nappy need changing again? I changed it just before Moriarty came in. I heard him coming up the stairs and quickly got out of the shower since she was clean and put on a clean one. It's only been 10 minutes."

Sherlock's phone beeped. "I.O.U." It came from Mycroft's number but was definitely not Mycroft. Sherlock proceeded to call his brother's phone. He needed to know what was going on. "I was wondering when you would call. The text was a joke even if your brother could answer. You think I wouldn't check his pockets? Oh and I want my daughter. You give me her and I'll give you your brother."

"You can have my brother, Moriarty. There's no proof that you're the father. I did a DNA test. So good luck with that." Sherlock said the last bit a little like Moriarty did on the roof at St. Bart's over 3 years ago. Sherlock hung up then his phone beeped. He got some information that he need as to his brother's whereabouts. His text had activated his brother's GPS in the phone as Mycroft was not chipped as the MI6 agents were.

John was definitely not going to be drawn into a nappy-change conversation when he had just had three potato-mashers (not of the kitchen utensil variety) thrown directly at him in the last few minutes:  
"Wait a minute! Wait a minute, do you mean to say that I and Moriarty share the same father and that Sheralyn might have two Dads, after all, and that your brother let himself be taken hostage by that... that monster who tried to blow me up and has done unspeakable things to you?"

"Please, John, could you not sound like Marlon Brando in The Godfather? At least we can now follow both Anthea through her microchip and Mycroft through his mobile. I am, however, intrigued by how fast Sheralyn needed her nappy changed!"

"And you had us all believe you had no cultural references in the Bond Air case! To come to the point, you don't have to be a consulting detective, nor be possessed of a massive intellect to realise that the poor mite was as frightened out of her wits as we were, especially when you simply threw her into Mrs. Hudson's lap without any previous warning. It was, what you might call a gut reaction. You are such a child sometimes, that instead of punching you in the face, I feel the urge to put you across my knee and give you such a spanking that you won't sit down comfortably for days! Now, can we get back to the DNA result and how to find your dear brother before we deal with whom your results show is MY definitely not dear brother?" 

"I need to think. No one breathe!" Sherlock half shouted. He quickly went into his mind palace. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to process all of the information he had just received in the last several minutes. His eyes were rapidly moving behind closed lids and his hands moving and pausing in various positions.


	5. Chapter 5

After a few minutes he opened his eyes as he gasped. "Oh, I know what we need to do. (a little louder) Mrs. Hudson, bring Sheralyn here please. (back to normal volume) John, we need to get the 2 of them into Lestrade's care at NSY. You need to come with me. We need to head to my parents' place immediately. They are in danger as much as Mycroft and Sheralyn are." What Sherlock didn't mention was the faint sound he heard from his brother over the phone when he had talked with Moriarty. His brother gave a great clue as to their destination.

Mrs. Hudson came back into the room with a clean happy Sheralyn. Sherlock grabbed the tyke and made sure she was secure in the car seat before heading downstairs. John grabbed the baby gear and explained to Mrs. Hudson that she had to come with to watch the baby and for her own security while Sherlock contacted his parents to leave their place as quickly as possible. He also instructed them to not head to London. This was the one time he was still thankful that his parents drove even though he didn't like the idea of it due to their age.

"Sherlock, what's happening? Why can't we go to London. We have a flight to catch to the US. You know how we like to line dance and there's no place here fit for it."

"Please trust me Mum. Your line dancing can wait. It is of national security. If it weren't, I wouldn't be calling you and you know that." Sherlock tried his hardest to remain calm as it was his parents and not one of his clients or friends, but it was hard. He could feel and hear the edge of frustration in his voice.

They got everything together and dashed down the stairs. Sherlock was thankful to see Lestrade was still there at the crime scene as the sun was setting and the street lights turning on. "Lestrade, I need you to take us all to Scotland Yard immediately. It is of national security. I'll explain on the way." Sherlock proceeded to climb into Lestrade's car without even waiting for a response. He grabbed the front passenger seat so that John could sit in back by Sheralyn and also calm Mrs. Hudson who was beginning to worry.

It never ceased to amaze Dr. Watson that the indolent git who could not be bothered to reach for his own mobile in his pocket when he was in the middle of some evaluation (try to unglue him from his microscope and you would end with a temper tantrum on your hands), could and did become a whirlwind of energy and decisiveness in moments of crisis. 

With Sheralyn securely fastened into her car seat this time (Sherlock wasn’t taking any chances! ) and Mrs. Hudson cooing to her soothingly, the good doctor could relax enough momentarily to assess the sheer amount of information he had had dumped on him these past few hours. 

Mary (Abby, he told himself, trying to put some distance between himself and the woman who had comforted him during the time he had grieved over Sherlock's supposed death) had left their semi-detached house without taking as much as her purse with her. An attempt had been made to abduct his daughter right outside Baker Street. When that had been foiled, and he had to admit that he had fumbled the revolver, perhaps because it was an unusual weapon, Moriarty himself had put in an appearance and demanded that Sheralyn be handed to him because she was his daughter. The cursory test results had shown a near-impossible DNA match and now Sherlock was talking of an issue of national importance. 

Dr Watson could already feel a throbbing headache build up, but then he heard Sherlock say: "If Moriarty can access Magnussen's real vaults and use the information about Lady Smallwood's and Mycroft's involvement in the matter of Kaliningrad, formerly known as Koenigsberg, then the Russians will no longer sit passively on their hands and watch MI6 make a pig's breakfast of the whole affair."

"Sherlock, I'm not sure I understood even half of what you have been saying, but why is your family in danger?" asked a bewildered-sounding DI Lestrade.

"Oh, you are a detective yourself, broadly speaking! Haven't you figured out that my mother has correctly pinpointed Magnussen's actual stash of documents, and if you think I am Mycroft's major pressure point, you are sadly mistaken! She holds the key to unleashing Armageddon in the form of World War III! "

Sherlock had indeed improved in his interpersonal skills, was Dr Watson's reaction to that statement, at least he did not finish with "you moron"!, he couldn't help but smile a little tiredly, both at the thought and at the beautiful little girl in her fluffy coverall.


	6. Chapter 6

Once they had reached NSY it was already dark, but in Lestrade's office Sherlock made sure that Sergeant Donovan was put in charge of the baby and Mrs. Hudson. She focused so much on his urgently given instructions that she did not even seem to be the same carefree young woman who taunted him at crime scenes.

She did, however, have a major objection: "If your brother is in such immediate danger from Moriarty getting his hands on such sensitive material, why did he get into that limousine with him? After all, Mr. Holmes wasn't deafened like our lot."

"That's what I like about you, Sally, once you grasp the salient points, you cut straight to the chase! We will make a great detective out of you yet!,” he smiled down at her, sighed and explained: "My brother is an annoying, cloying, rubbish big brother, but once his loyalties are engaged, he never lets that person down. In this case, he is protecting Lady Smallwood, as it was a plan they both had a hand in."

"The plan that would have led to your inevitable demise in Eastern Europe? In that case, even though I know I shall regret saying this later on, I'm thankful for Moriarty's return. So, we work with the Special Crimes division and keep tabs on Mr. Holmes and Moriarty." This time she smiled back.

"Any chance of warming the baby's formula in this place, Ms. Donovan?", interrupted Mrs. Hudson.

Sally had been rummaging through the diaper bag as she talked with Sherlock. "Ah, here's the bottle warmer. Figured John probably grabbed that. Once I get it plugged in, we can get that bottle warmed for Sheralyn."

Mrs. Hudson and Donovan worked on getting the bottle ready for Sheralyn while Sherlock continued to rattle off his plan to Lestrade and John. "So we will follow them to my parents' place. I know a short cut that knocks of 45 minutes if we hurry we can get there first. Also, did that girl talk? I have a feeling she was forced into it so go easy on her with the charges. Oh and we need an unmarked car. I know the style. Get me over to the government building via the tunnels. I have access."

Sherlock dashed out the door with John and Lestrade closely behind. Both had a bit of shock on their faces with Sherlock's last statement. They didn't question him but hurried to catch up.

"Some day you will explain how you have access won't you?" John asked as they headed into the underground tunnel system that connected NSY with a few nearby government buildings.

"Best not to. Better to keep you in the dark just because. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. You've been around me long enough to know what I have done before. You might quickly recall another incident." That was all Sherlock said. He knew Lestrade had not heard about the U.M.Q.R.A. incident when they dealt with the hound and Dr. Frankland. Sherlock didn't feel that was important to tell Lestrade so conveniently left it out to John's relief. But John knew immediately what Sherlock was referring to. He still had the nicked card from Mycroft or possibly a newer one that allowed him access to what they needed.

"Oh, I see. Yeah, knowing you, that would probably be safer for me and Sheralyn." John said as a way to cover his understanding. They reached the car Sherlock wanted. He jumped in and hot-wired it. After throwing the car into gear, he raced it out of the parking garage and headed out of London towards his parents' place. He hoped his mother and father had left and not headed towards London as he requested. They would pass Mycroft's vehicle for sure if they did. Lestrade threw on the sirens as they raced through town. He kept them going until they were sufficiently out of the London metro area whereby traffic was scarce. Sherlock kept racing down the highway occasionally taking to the shoulder to get around other cars.

Suddenly Sherlock made a sharp left cutting through the fields. He knew the area well and knew where the fences were and where the gaps in those fences were so he could take the SUV through without issues. Sherlock flipped the lights to high beam so that he could see further better. As he drove a minimum of 70 kmh through the fields, he sent an encrypted message to Lady Smallwood. He knew she would have the necessary clearance to make sure the SUV was not immobilized en route. He also made sure that she knew his plan just in case MI-6 needed to be called in at the spur of the moment. With Sherlock anything could be possible even if they were only needed for clean-up.


	7. Chapter 7

Meanwhile, Mummy and Daddy Holmes were heading from their cottage to Edinburgh, Scotland as quickly as legally possible. Mummy Holmes kept nagging Daddy to not speed too badly as she didn't want to deal with any traffic stops. Edinburgh was their planned escape city or one of them at least. It had been pre-arranged with Sherlock. There had been a few others pre-arranged with Mycroft that Sherlock was not told about. The location depended on who called them and the message that was sent.

"Who was the idiot who put that fence there and didn't tell me?" Sherlock had not been on this route in several years. Uni was closing in on 20 years ago and the last time he had gone this route was back during his Uni days. The most recent intel he had still had a gap in the fence. He would have words with Mycroft later about this whole fiasco. Sherlock quickly turned the SUV around and headed back the way they came a couple of kilometers before finding an area he could break through without too much issues. He continued on his way heading to his parents'. He sped up as much as he could to make up for that bit of lost time.

Meanwhile, back at NSY, Mrs. Hudson and Donovan are dealing with Mrs. Hudson had just finished giving little Sheralyn her evening feed, which Sergeant Donovan had so helpfully managed to heat to the right temperature, when the usually placid, gurgling little girl made a most alarming whimpering noise, just as Mrs. Hudson had laid her across her right shoulder blade to help her burp. Not knowing what to do, she smoothed her hand down the baby's back, in soft little circling motions, but the whimpering grew in intensity as Sheralyn tried to squirm out of her grasp. Things were decidedly not going well, with her boys off on an impossible car chase, their entire world threatened by a psychopath apparently come to life, and just being in strange surroundings, not back in her ground-floor flat, surrounded by her favourite things and familiar smells. Almost totally out of her depth, she decided that she needed another woman's assistance, but Mrs. Hudson belonged to an older generation, so she turned to Sergeant Donovan only as a last resort. "Ms. Donovan, if you would be so kind, could you help me with the baby here? I have fed her, burped her and changed her. She should not be squirming or whimpering like this, she should be feeling drowsy and ready for a nap."

"Sally, please, Mrs. Hudson, even that overgrown child you have been spoiling these past few years calls me that! Shall I call the duty doctor in, to have a look at her? He is not a paediatrician, but he may give us a clue at least."

"Ms. Donovan... sorry, Sally, you do know that below the banter he has very deep feelings for you, does Sherlock."

"Yes, buried so deep he would need a proper archaeological dig to find them," muttered Sally under her breath as she punched in the call for the doctor.

The next few minutes were spent with an anxious Mrs. Hudson hovering anxiously at the police surgeon's side as he poked and prodded an increasingly squirming baby. But when he tried to check her ears, she let out an impressively loud yell. He whipped out a tool, turned and glared at Donovan. "Which of you idiots fired a gun so close to her ears? She is likely suffering from a tear in her eardrum. No blood, so it is not completely perforated, but I don't want her getting an ear infection, so I shall give her some antibiotic ear drops, and then you should continue with plain painkilling serum until it heals."

Neither of the women had been present when the Peacemaker Colt had gone off, killing the cabbie on the spot, but they had a good idea of what might have happened.

"If it was the freak, next time I meet him I shall find a quiet little blind alley and pistol whip his high-bred face until it bleeds, just see if I don't," snarled Sergeant Donovan, as she helped Mrs. Hudson carefully drip the soothing ear drops into the baby's left ear and then using a cotton pad to keep the medicament from leaking out. In her agitation, she had not even bothered to correct the doctor on his wrong assumption.

"What makes you think Sherlock would put up with such behaviour on your part, Ms. ... sorry, Sally?"

"If he was the one responsible for the gun going off in such a manner, trust me, Mrs. Hudson, he will not even put up his hands to defend himself, he loves that baby so much that sheer guilt will make him take whatever I might decide to do to him! Now, for that statement on what happened outside 221B Baker Str." Sally walked determinedly to DI Lestrade's office.

After a few minutes of rummaging, Sally found the information she was looking for. She was somewhat surprised that Sherlock had not directly caused the gun to go off. "What?! John dropped the gun then it fired? Mr. Steady Hands dropped the thing and about made his daughter deaf!" Sally was a little shocked and slightly upset at that revelation. She had witnessed Lestrade's subsequent vomiting that had happened shortly after their arrival. She walked back to where Mrs. Hudson had Sheralyn. "How's she doing now? She seems a little calmer."

"She's calmed down quite a bit. Think she's just about ready for sleep, aren't you Sheralyn." Sally brought them back to Lestrade's office where they were being camped out for safety.

"I looked over the reports, looks like John dropped the gun and it went off when it hit the concrete. Completely accidental. Don't think we should tell him about it until after this whole fiasco with Mary & Mycroft is done. No need to worry him as he's got enough on his mind. If Sherlock had caused it, then I'd have called the freak and chewed him out." Sally definitely had more compassion for John than she did Sherlock. But she did admire Sherlock's determination even if she would never admit it publicly.


	8. Chapter 8

En route to the Holmes house, Mycroft is doing what he can of the situation which admittedly was not much at the moment and he knew it. "Anthea, not surprised to see you in on the scheme with Moriarty. Had that feeling for several weeks now. So what drew you in? Was it the money? His looks? His undeniable sinister charm?" The last one was Mycroft's way of saying that she was forced much like the way Moriarty had rigged his jury several years before. He also knew what had happened but wanted to hear her say it as confirmation that he had deduced correctly.

Anthea looked at Moriarty before answering somewhat hesitantly, "Of course it was his looks. Admired them for several years." She was obviously nervous as Moriarty nodded his head in agreement.

"We started dating a couple of months back. Like your brother, I know how to use disguises to my advantage." Moriarty said with a smirk. Mycroft knew that was a lie from both of them. He had Anthea trailed continuously and she never had lunch with any male, nor ran into any with what she did. Even her flat was wired under hidden CCTV cameras and microphones. They were under a different system than the normal ones. Mycroft and Sherlock had set the system up themselves. Mycroft sent Sherlock to do the actual installation while Anthea was at work with Mycroft just so she wouldn't know about it. That system had been in place since shortly after Sherlock came back from his 2 year mission. Sherlock checked that system regularly for hacking. He had his homeless network on it when he was on cases.

"Should have known," was Mycroft's reply. "So how are you 2 love birds? Seems right now you are both a little tense. I would have expected a little more snuggling since I can't really move anyhow being handcuffed and all. Of course, I suspect you 2 prefer to do that more in private." Mycroft noticed Anthea's subtle shift. He figured that Moriarty would have noticed too if he had not been actually looking out the window at the moment.

Jim might have seemed distracted for a moment, but the beveled glass with all those coats of arms in Mycroft's dining room was a very good substitute for a mirror, so he lost no time in grasping Anthea around the waist and planting a kiss on her lips, just to show Mycroft that the bait had not been taken!  
Seriously, how could the Holmes brothers think even for a moment that he had become a criminal mastermind through sheer luck? It had taken years of hard work and extreme, unhinged rationalisation to bring him to the top of his self-styled profession of consulting criminal. 

In truth, he had reached the point where he had learned patience, quite unlike his favourite toy, the unawakened Cinderella of his dreams, that gangly, curly-haired sentimental shadow of his former self, that endearingly bumbling Sherlock with his ever-widening circle of friends. He knew that he didn't have much time at his disposal, since Mycroft's movements were closely monitored, and the next scheduled check would be in less than fifteen minutes. If Mycroft didn't reply with the correct response by typing the word on his mobile, tablet or laptop, whichever he happened to be using at the moment, then the house would be surrounded by an armed response team in less than ten minutes after that.

He took a deep breath and turned to face Mycroft, fully aware that the smarter of the two brothers was scanning him with laser-like intensity. "Mr. Holmes, nothing of this would have happened if your little brother had not shown sentiment again by refusing to give up my daughter. I mean, really, she is nothing to him, by now he will have found out that she is not even Dr Watson's daughter, he could have let me take her away without all this fuss, and you would never have been incommoded!" 

"Mr. Moriarty, your whole demeanour and stance belie your words, do not for a minute think you can trick me, I am not sentimental and certainly not the idiot my brother sometimes becomes by letting his heart rule his head, despite his assertion that he has no heart. What do you truly want, and, in light of our current situation, I would urge you to be brief."

Jim moved towards Mycroft and whispered in his ear: "I want my daughter, but above all, I want your dear mother, Mr. Holmes! At this moment, she is quite inarguably the queen in our little game of chess."  
A sharp intake of breath was all the indication Mycroft gave of his agitation that the most dangerous criminal mastermind in Britain was preparing to use his skills in the pay of getting the information needed to control a potential WWIII. Mycroft listened to the sounds outside of the Limo that they were in heading to the Holmes country house his parents lived at. He hoped his parents were gone. He figured Sherlock had contacted them, but his parents could be thick sometimes and did not always heed advice regarding danger. Maybe that's where Sherlock got it from Mycroft thought to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock made it through the last hole in the fence lines without issues. He made a sharp left onto the main road again. He hoped he was still ahead of the limo and gunned the SUV. His speeds were now closing in on 160 KPH. The road was quiet as it was closing in on 11pm. After going over 2 more hills and around a tight S curve, barely keeping the SUV upright, his parents' house came into view. It was still about 2 miles out, but Sherlock would be there rather quickly. 

Sherlock drove past his parents' house to John's protest until Sherlock made a tight right turn into the trees a few hundred meters behind the house. He hid the SUV and the guys quickly jumped grabbing the gear Sherlock indicated. They rapidly descended on the home from the back side. Sherlock noticed the lights were off except for the 1 his parents had indicated was the all clear light. Sherlock & Mycroft both knew what to do with that if either had arrived at the house to signify safe or dangerous. Sherlock let out a quiet, brief sigh of relief knowing that he got their first. He motioned the guys in and they went about setting up the traps.

Fortunately, Mrs. Holmes was not so theoretically-minded when it came to real- life issues, so she pressed Dad to do his best to get them to their safe house up north. She knew the stakes in this game were extremely high, and her affection for her husband did not cloud her reasoning abilities. How she wished that the Vernet genes had not made Mycroft into a Thinking Machine in pure self-defence and had not left so many scars on the heart of her favourite son. 

During their drive along the M1 she kept hoping that her darling Sherlock would find a way out of this mess, fully aware that Mycroft may have involved the highest echelons of government in their little game of strategy. For her, it had been a simple working hypothesis, for her wayward boys it seemed a matter of life and death, and she felt a bit guilty over involving that nice Dr Watson, who seemed to have had such a steadying influence on her pet. She had always faced facts, and knew that Sherlock had been pretty much the result of an accident, her being over forty when she discovered she was pregnant again, right after her reconciliation with her husband after the long hiatus that had scared poor Mycroft into building up defensive walls against showing any sentiment the size of the Atlantic Wall, back when she was a child and listening to the wireless. That ten-year difference could not be blamed on her husband alone! 

She had shown the teenage Mycroft his baby brother at the hospital and had heard her voice crack a bit when she had looked deep into his eyes and asked him to care for and protect his baby brother. How could she have foreseen the extent to which her eldest boy had taken that injunction to heart! She turned to her husband, brushed her hand along his neck and said composedly: "Anytime you want me to take over, dear, just let me know. This time I am entirely focused on the task at hand, we need to reach safety, so I refuse to be distracted by any stray thoughts or random observations of other drivers. Please, let me help"

Mr. Holmes heard her very clearly, and after so many years of marriage, he recognised the undercurrent of agitation in his wife's voice, but he couldn't help thinking that she was absolute rubbish at driving, clenched his hands on the wheel and refused to acknowledge the growing cramp in his upper back muscles as he drove, hoping that Mycroft, Sherlock and that funny army doctor left alone with a baby to care for were all safe. 

Little did he know that there was a major car accident blocking the highway about 2 km up the way. There was little warning and no roads that he could exit the car on to to bypass the mess. They ended up sitting in the mess for close to 3 hours before they could slowly pass by on the left shoulder. Mr. Holmes was glad his wife was on the left side of the car as the accident look like such a major mess and potentially tragic. Once they cleared the scene, he accelerated again trying to get to Edinburgh and their safe house. They were now on the A702 finishing up their last few hour or so of the trip. The delay from the accident had them reaching that highway close to midnight with about 3 hours to go until Edinburgh.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade hurriedly set the traps that Sherlock had planned. Some were inside and several more were outside. They quickly got things done then went into hiding just inside the wooded area near the house. This allowed Sherlock a view for when the limo arrived while also staying protected. He had switched the light to code that he had been there. After a few minutes the men heard a car engine then the actual car approaching the property. 

"You first Mycroft. Knowing your family, something’s probably up. If you survive getting to the house, we will follow where you walk. If you don't then we won't bother following that path and Anthea will be next." Jim turned from his harsh tone to a more lovable slightly sing-song voice. "Won't you sweetie. You love to let me be in control of you." Anthea was beginning to regret her decision. She was coerced into it in the first place.

Mycroft climbed out of the limo as best as he could with his hands still cuffed behind his back. It had not been the most comfortable ride but he knew it could have been worse. He had been mere centimeters from the boot and knew he could easily enough have tossed back there. He noticed the light was not his parents' cue so he figured Sherlock had arrived first, probably going through the fields again just like he did during his Uni days. He carefully made his way through to the front door knowing where some of the traps were. He and Sherlock had planned it out months ago. He had debated setting off 1 or more of the traps but decided to wait until he was indoors. After a couple of minutes, he reached the front door. He turned around and tried the knob knowing that it was probably locked. He waited until Moriarty got up to the door before moving out of the way slightly. Moriarty wrapped his arm through Mycroft's arm and then went to work on the door. 

Once the door opened they were greeted by absolute silence and complete darkness, which was a bit puzzling to Mycroft, since he and Sherlock had planned their defensive policy to protect their parents. There was only the dim light coming from the entrance, the signal of danger.  
Being bound and still having to walk a straight line without triggering any of the floor sensors was proving stressful for Mycroft, but he also had Anthea to worry about, so he had taken the precaution of stepping on a patch of fresh moss just before entering. In that way, she could follow in his exact footsteps by the almost imperceptible little greenish tinge left by his left foot. He just hoped that by treading carefully due to the dim light, his normally wider pace would not appear suspicious to the looming threat following right behind her. Despite what he had repeatedly averred to Sherlock, he trusted and liked the young woman who shared some ultra confidential information but always seemed to carry her burden of knowledge in an airy, charming manner. 

Meanwhile, out among the carefully groomed bushes, in the thicket behind the kitchen, Sherlock and the others waited for Moriarty to set off one of the sensors, so they could storm into the house and finally get their hands on some concrete information, preferably without firing a shot. All the same, Sherlock knew that Moriarty would never enter what he considered enemy territory alone and unprepared. This time around, snipers were out of the question and demolition charges rather unlikely. What could the master criminal possibly hold as an ace up his sleeve? 

Moriarty signaled the driver of the limo to start heading around to the back of the house. He motioned to stay near the outer edge of the property as he figured Sherlock or Mummy & Daddy Holmes probably had the place booby trapped somehow and preferred his driver stayed alive. Not that Moriarty would ever admit to not knowing how to drive, he figured why bother when he could have someone else do it. He was busy enough trying to dominate the world despite being taught once how to drive years earlier. Upon seeing the blue light in the entry way, Moriarty took it out. It wasn't hard to do when he had Mycroft's brolly in his possession. Moriarty grabbed Anthea tightly around her upper left arm right after that. "Mycroft, what was the purpose of that light? Do tell or I might decide to make Anthea here into a pair of shoes."

Mycroft was about to reply when there was a loud cry from the back of the house. The driver had found one of the traps and was now dangling upside down. Moriarty barely flinched and shoved Anthea forward into Mycroft. "Your answer Mycroft. Now." Moriarty said venomously. He then cocked a gun.

"My parents just happen to like that color light I suppose. Their odd, nothing like Sherlock or I. They're rather dull. I had to suffer through Les Mis with them shortly after Sherlock's return. Just 2 goldfish like other ordinary people." Mycroft said in his most convincing lie possible.

"And the noise out back was the driver finding a trap I suppose, so who set it? Tell me or she's gone." Moriarty snarled that last sentence.

"I don't know. Honestly. I was with you since Baker St. There's no way my brother could have gotten here first. He would have passed us on the highway if he had and we would have known about it." Mycroft was sure of that except for the light had changed to Sherlock's color proving that he was there.

Then Mycroft remembered the field driving that Sherlock used to do when he first got his license. He hoped his face had not just given him away when the power went out in the house. Sherlock had made the place seem like it was booby trapped inside and out when in reality there were only about 3 traps total. The driver found the one outside and was now in Lestrade's custody with a few bruises thanks to Sherlock.


	11. Chapter 11

Meanwhile back at NSY, Mrs. Hudson was slowly pacing with Sheralyn chatting with Sally Donovan. "Thank you for helping with Sheralyn. I can't believe that John would drop the gun. He's usually so sure handed with that sort of thing. My arms are getting tired. Do you mind holding her for a bit?"

Sally was a little surprised. Kids were not her area. "Um, I suppose. What do I do besides support her head? I'm not really practiced with this. The closest thing to a kid I get is Sherlock and he can support himself," she stated as Mrs. Hudson carefully handed Sheralyn over guiding Sally on how to hold the baby properly.

"You will be fine dear. You've got her good. Now she likes when you walk around. At least that's what Mary has told me when she and John have come over for a visit. I wonder what happened to Mary that would cause her to leave? She loved John and Sheralyn so much. You don't have any idea do you Ms. Donovan?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Well, Mrs. Hudson wasn't the guileless widow she sometimes seemed to project! Just thinking back on her encounters with DI Lestrade's drugs bust and the chance of their finding her marijuana stash (herbal soothers, forsooth) and casting her mind back over Sherlock's totally unforgivable lapse in asking her to provide some more cocaine for his collapsing system, she did not feel that she could let DS Donovan into all this information, as the young lady might take it totally wrong. She preferred to change the topic of conversation, so she said, in as chipper a tone as she could manage: "Any news of our boys yet?" 

"Mrs. Hudson, I may like you a lot, especially since you manage to keep that freak in order, but do not evade the issue! What could have led Mary to leave so suddenly? After all, that overgrown child said that she would be safe!" 

"Oh, then you must have insider information, dear, since I never heard Sherlock explain the whys and heretofores of Mary's past, I expect it has caught up with her, somehow, and now we are all involved trying to undo the knots of the consequences her past has wrought"

"Mrs. Hudson, please remember that only the freak is allowed to disparage the IQ of the Yard. What exactly is going on?"

"Trust me, dear, if I had the answer to that, I would already have taken the poor baby back to Baker Str. and looked after all her needs and wants, but..." 

"...yeah, I suppose you're right. If the freak wants you here, then I suppose he has a reason that he hasn't mentioned." Donovan continued walking with Sheralyn who was fast asleep in her arms. The pain in her ears had subsided enough for a deep sleep at last.

A few minutes later Donovan's phone started beeping with a text message from Anderson "Where are you? Thought you were coming over after your shift ended 2 hours ago. Don't tell me freak had something to do with this."

Sally quickly texted back, "Moriarty had something to do with this. Have Mrs. Hudson and Sheralyn under protective custody in Lestrade's office. Lestrade, Freak, and Dr. Watson went somewhere in a flash to try to get Moriarty and the British Government. Don't know if I'll be able to get there tonight." She was hoping that the ever inquisitive Mrs. Hudson would not ask. She was very familiar with older ladies how much they liked to gab. They never meant to be nosy in a bad way, but they also never seemed to be able to keep their mouths shut if the opportunity arose. Sally was not sure how much Mrs. Hudson would blab.

Sally's phone went off again. She expected another text from Anderson when she got a text with the annoying monogram at the end! Sally was in reality too much of a good copper to let her sentiments about Sherlock cloud her judgment, and she had found out in the course of the last few hours that the scale of the crisis was much larger than she had thought at the beginning. 

"DI Lestrade and I plan to raid my parents' home, signal light indicates Mycroft, Moriarty and a third party are in the house already. SWAT team not needed, blood bath otherwise. Need perimeter watch ASAP, must be stealth-trained, night vision goggles necessary, will keep you posted, SH"

How in Heaven's name was she supposed to organise all that with her superior absent and the Superintendent oblivious of the dramatic turn events had taken, probably at home asleep? Then she had a flash of insight: Sherlock had always found DI Dimmock less annoying than any of his counterparts, so she quickly stepped into her office and dialed his number. Naturally, the man was cranky, having been awoken from what seemed a sound sleep next to his wife, as Sally could hear indistinct female sounds in the background. 

"Sir, DI Lestrade being absent, I need your permission to set up a perimeter team around an estate in Devon." When it came down to basics, Sally could be crisp and very efficient, with no word lost on explanation. 

"Oh, Heavens, is Lestrade once again gallivanting around the country with that half-mad eccentric? DS Donovan, you know perfectly well this has got to go through the proper channels, it's standard procedure! Go and wake up the officer on duty of the Devonshire Police force, goodnight to you, and good luck!"

Sally didn't bother with a polite reply; instead she put the phone down and proceeded to call the Devonshire Police Department. Time was of the essence whenever that ectomorphic, crystal-eyed freak actually needed her help! "Hello, this is Constable Wilson of the Devonshire Police."

"Hello Constable, this is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan of Scotland Yard. I need a perimeter around this address in Devon. Get me whoever is in charge so that can be arranged." Sally was quick and to the point with the tone of her voice commanding action. She didn't care if it was reaching midnight, she wanted Moriarty taken care of.

"Yes Ma'am, right away. It'll be a moment to get him Ma'am." Turning away from the phone and calling loudly so that it still carried to Donovan's ears quite clearly, "Sir, important call for you from The Yard. Better get on it quick."

"Hello, this is Chief Inspector Mason. How may I help The Yard?"

"Sir, there is an incident in Devon involving a member of the British Government, his personal assistant, a Scotland Yard Detective Inspector, and 2 civilians. We need a perimeter watch put around the house. Night vision goggles, stealth trained, not SWAT team for the people. We need to avoid a blood bath at all costs. What can you do? Any of our people would be 2.5 hours out at least." Sally was listening to the response as Mrs. Hudson tried to calm Sheralyn who had woken up. "Thank you sir. It is much appreciated." 

She ended her call and sent a cryptic message to Sherlock hoping his phone was in a safe place. "DP en route. Specs confirm." She didn't bother signing it. There was no point with the time crunch. Her phone beeped back with a simple "Thanks" which just about made Sally faint. The Freak was actually being polite.


	12. Chapter 12

"OK John, Lestrade, here's our plan for going into the house..." Sherlock briefly outlined what the plan would entail: with the motion sensors active and a deranged psychopath holding his brother hostage, not to mention his precious goldfish, stealth was paramount. He then texted Sally to find out how things were progressing. When he read her answer, all his coldly calculating logic failed him for once: "Devonshire police? What is your Sergeant playing at, Lestrade?" 

"Hey, genius, it's standard procedure!" Lestrade whispered back, unwilling to let his closest colleague down, even in the midst of such a crisis.

Sherlock took a deep breath once John placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, his mind going back to all the times the doctor had admonished "Sherlock, please, remember to breathe!"

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "Tell the local constabulary to come equipped with night vision goggles and tear gas masks and to bring three spares, unless you'd rather experience such an attack first hand."

"Stop behaving like a petulant adolescent, there are lives at stake here, even if I wouldn't mind anything permanent happening to dear old Jim," hissed John on his other side. 

They bided their time until at long last (about fifteen minutes by Sherlock's estimate, not a bad reaction time,) there were at least thirty shadowy figures barely visible in the faint moonlight. The window of opportunity was closing fast, since Moonrise would be rather a hindrance in their efforts.

A man detached himself from the shadows and approached them crawling while holding out three tear-gas masks: "Which of you gentlemen is DI Lestrade? I was instructed to hand these to him and await instructions."

Lestrade acknowledged his presence in a whisper, showing the other police officer his badge, and couldn't help a smile at the innumerable times Sherlock had nicked it just to annoy him. Of course, the genius prat conveniently forgot the other side of the coin, which was that every time Lestrade had to report his badge stolen, the requisite amount for a replacement was deducted from his pay. He found his hand itching, as he dreamed of the impossible: catching planet Sherlock unawares and giving him the spanking he so richly deserved for making the Yard look like idiots time and time again, perhaps he might even let Donovan watch!

But harsh reality brought him back to the task at hand. The baritone whisper brought all of them inside each other's space as Sherlock explained: "We cannot bypass the front door security system, so we shall go by the back door. The moment we are in, I shall neutralise the motion sensors in the kitchen, by which time I expect all of you to have your tear-gas canisters ready and your masks on. Once we are inside the house, your men should throw all their canisters primed and ready through every window they can aim at! Then, we shall proceed to the front lounge, where Moriarty is currently keeping Mycroft and Anthea. It is at that moment that I shall short-circuit the mains, which can be found in the hallway. Thereafter, your men should come in with both tear-gas masks and night vision goggles on: Moriarty will be easy to pick out, Anthea has a stronger heat signature, as a female, and Mycroft has a slightly higher one to the average male of his height and build because of his girth."

"What about the generator?" protested John.

"Ah, yes, I do love to leave the best for last!" was Sherlock's only comment.

"You'll see when the time comes." Sherlock continued. “Everyone ready? They won't stay where they are for long and the moon will be up soon. It's likely to be full."

Mummy & Daddy Holmes made it to their destination on the north side of Edinburgh. "I'm going to call Sherlock to let him know that we made it."

"No, mum. We are not to contact them by phone. At least not directly. You need to use that number for the Yard and the contact there." Daddy Holmes replied calmly. His wife may be a genius, but she was a mother first.

"I suppose, but...” while Mummy Holmes was fretting about her wayward but admittedly favourite child, Sherlock was orchestrating the move against Moriarty.


	13. Chapter 13

All policemen had been given their orders, DI Lestrade helping to make sure that no one stepped out of line or indulged in personal heroics, and the four of them (Sherlock had included the DS from Devon PC in the initial assault, after all) crept stealthily through the underbrush to reach the kitchen door. He was fairly certain that the two policemen were up on their training and that the good doctor would reflexively remember his army training, as for himself, the undercover work he had done for Mycroft (dear elder brother who never acknowledged how bonded to him he was, Sherlock muffled a sigh) had conditioned him for stealth. 

Having reached the kitchen door, he motioned them to a complete standstill, pushed on on hands and knees, fumbled in his pocket for the key, carefully raised a hand to the handle and crawled through the crack of the door. Even when he was inside, he kept crawling, until he reached the sink, opened the cupboard hiding the food mashing device and pressed a button to the left of it. The motion sensors were deactivated in this space! He righted himself, and motioned to the others to follow, which they did with alacrity, John finding time to whisper in his ears: "Did you remember to breathe properly, you git? Your face is an unhealthy red colour!" 

When would John finally understand that with more important things at hand, breathing WAS boring! But Sherlock could not spare the time even to huff at the comment, as they hastily secured the masks to their faces: with the signal light from the kitchen that all was clear, the attack was imminent! Right enough, primed tear gas canisters were launched from the outside, even as Sherlock and the others made their way to the front lounge, their own canisters at the ready. He reached the mains switch and threw it, night vision goggles now on. 

As one, all four men launched their primed gas canisters in the direction of the heat sources, but Sherlock had one last thing to dispose of: the generator! He hurriedly backtracked to where the door to the basement was, opened it and fairly flew down the familiar fifteen steps to reach the object of his last wrecking operation for this seemingly endless day: sure enough, the generator was humming, in preparation mode for starting up to cover the need created by the short-circuited fuses. He worked the cover open and was just about to start on the finicky, precise operation that would cross-wire and render it inoperational, when his mobile buzzed in his pocket! Out of sheer instinct (he refused to admit to himself that it was a habit), he pulled the offending generic device out of his pocket (his precious iPhone was still somewhere in the flat, since he remembered texting John about the baby's arrival that morning) and saw his mother's caller id. Perfect! It seemed poetic justice to him that his mother would become instrumental in saving Brother Mycroft! He laid the crocodile pliers aside, dismantled the phone and used its battery on the live leads of the generator, which gave a splutter and remained inactive. Going back upstairs, he was met with a scene which seemed to come out of Dante's inferno or the more lurid sci-fi films John had periodically subjected him to. 

Meanwhile, just outside Edinburgh the call went dead. "Daddy, the call dropped. It was ringing then nothing. I hope my boys are all right."

"No need to worry mum. They can take care of themselves just fine." He responded calmly.

"But I'm their mother. It's my job to worry," was her somewhat terse reply. He didn't bother arguing with that. She may have been a genius, but sometimes her logic was off and he wasn't about to correct it.

Chaos was ensuing in Devon. Sherlock had quickly rejoined his team of 4. He quickly pulled Mycroft down and got a mask on him. Then he went to hunt down Moriarty only to realize that Moriarty was in the throes of a severe asphyxiation attack, and although Sherlock toyed with the idea of letting his erstwhile Nemesis die of the effects of the main component of British police tear gas, namely CR gas, also known as dibenzoxazepine (it was really weird how he could delete the Solar System and retain all information about a chemical compound!), he quickly ran back to the kitchen, grabbed the first container he could lay his hands on, filled it with water and ran back to kneel by the prostrate, wheezing, pitifully croaking man in the throes of what seemed to be not only asphyxiation (CR was known to be toxic in large quantities) but also a severe allergic reaction. He poured the contents of the pitcher over Moriarty's face, while John was attending to Mycroft and Anthea (not her real name, but unimportant at this juncture in time). 

"Sherlock, we need to get them out of here as fast as possible, the air is positively toxic!" 

"You don't have to scream, John, I can hear you perfectly well. What are we going to do about this one here?" he pointed to Moriarty. 

"Let him die for real this time?" 

"Oh, John, where is your sense of adventure! I shall always remember his little reminder that every good story needs a good old-fashioned villain! Besides, there is the issue of Sheralyn's paternity to clarify!"

"Yeah, right, the villain who forced you to commit such an act of betrayal against your nearest and dearest friends! Let's save him, by all means."

At that moment, DI Lestrade cut into the budding argument by hoisting Mycroft onto his shoulder in a fireman's lift and heading for the back garden. John threw an annoyed look at Sherlock, just to let him know that the issue remained unresolved, and picked up Anthea, following in Lestrade's footsteps. 

Sighing, Sherlock had to follow suit, half-dragging, half-lifting an ever-more distressed-growing Moriarty. To think that it would come to this: saving his worst enemy's life!

Once outside in the cool night air, both Mycroft and Anthea seemed to recover reasonably well, while Moriarty developed a bluish tint around his lips, and there was a clear skin rash all over the exposed parts of his body. 

"John, please, you are a doctor, what is wrong with him?" Sherlock was at his wits' end, and his best friend seemed bent on revenge killing while there was still so much information to be gleaned from the clearly distressed villain. 

Dr Watson deigned to take a closer look, and then he became all business: "He is suffering an allergic reaction, possibly to the active reagent of the tear gas!" He raised his voice:"Hey, Lestrade, call your pet DS over here and tell him to bring an Epi-pen out of the first-aid kit"

DI Lestrade was nothing if not efficient: when he barked out his commands, the other police officers around did his bidding double-quick. 

So it was that Sherlock Holmes saved the life of James Moriarty through the good offices of his best friends, Dr Watson and DI Lestrade. Now, it only remained for them to lock up the kitchen door securely, transport Mycroft, Anthea and a still very groggy Moriarty (handcuffed to Lestrade for good measure) back to their vehicle and head back to London. 

Before leaving, however, he sent a brief text to his mother to thank her for all her help, which left Mrs. Holmes a bit puzzled: what had her darling boy been up to again?


	14. Chapter 14

En route to London they made a quick stop at a hospital so that John would have everything he needed to care for Moriarty before he could be taken to the secure government hospital usually reserved for MI6 agents.

In the mean time Lestrade contacted Donovan to let her know that they were on their way back with everyone & to keep Mrs. Hudson & Sheralyn there until they arrived.

Meanwhile in Edinburgh, "Daddy, what do think Sherl meant?"

Mr. Holmes had a fair idea what it was all about; his mild upper civil servant appearance hid a multitude of sins as well as comprehensive knowledge of Mycroft's and his wife's plotting and counter-plotting.

"Dearest, I think we should let the boys deal with all the technicalities of the problem while you focus on the strategic implications. After all, you have become quite involved in something of international interest. Once we reach the safe house in Edinburgh, I shall let our children know, and they can take it on from there." His soothing baritone, so much like Sherlock's, had a steadying effect on his wife, and he used this knowledge to the best advantage, having lived with an erratic genius more than half his life-time, and endured the childhood years of two budding geniuses, which in Sherlock's case, he wasn't quite sure was over!

Almost at the same time, Moriarty, or what passed for him, was being delivered to a secure hospital facility, with Dr. Watson in full army Medical Corps form giving directions and supervising the arch-villain's safe and secure transfer to an emergency ward for further treatment.

Sherlock started telling his story of the whole evening to DI Dimmock, as DI Lestrade had been an active participant, and there might be a conflict of interest in the chain of evidence later on. He had never particularly liked the younger DI, but needs must, and he was already bone-tired from having driven to Devon and half-way back, dealt with a full-frontal attack on his parents' home and a squealing, squirming baby before that. At the thought, his mind ground to a halt: where were Sheralyn and Mrs. Hudson?

Mycroft and Anthea had been taken to the secure medical facility to be checked up against any after effects of the tear-gas attack, so he could not fall back on his brother's help! He almost heaved a sigh of relief when DS Donovan appeared outside DI Dimmock's office with the baby in her arms and his treasured Mrs. Hudson in protective tow.

He nearly jumped when Sally smiled at him and said: "Well, Sherlock, it seems you pretend to know nothing about pop culture, but you certainly acted like James-freaking-Bond at your parents' house!"

"Sally, at this moment I am so glad to see that neither your acid tongue nor your sharp wit have deserted you that I would gladly listen to any abusive remarks you care to throw at me."

"Nice to see you back in one piece, Holmes!" she smiled back and handed him the squirming baby, who so plainly wanted to be held by him that she stretched out her chubby hands in his direction.

When he had the baby safely ensconced in his tired arms, he looked up to Mrs. Hudson: "Mrs. Hudson, once we're done here, I think we should all return home. Thank you for your invaluable help."

DS Donovan couldn't believe what she had just heard-the Freak was actually being polite to another human being outside DI Lestrade and Dr. Watson?

Several minutes later a tired Sherlock was carrying a sleeping Sheralyn secured in her car seat out to a waiting police car. Lestrade had offered to give Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Sheralyn a ride home. Mycroft already had called stating that the government would give John a ride back to Baker Street once he was done dealing with Moriarty's medical care. Sherlock secured Sheralyn's seat into the car before getting into the front passenger seat.

A few minutes later they were arriving back at Baker Street, "John, are you back yet?" In all the rush earlier, the knocker on the door had been moved so much that it was nearly impossible to tell if John was home or not. Sherlock knew that John would not change the angle of the knocker as Mycroft would and he knew that Mycroft would be at the hospital overnight for observation. 

"OK, so John's not back yet and I need to set up the portable crib as we didn't have time to do that earlier. Sheralyn, I see that you've woken up again. Doesn't surprise me as my voice can carry at times. Sorry if I was a bit loud. Now did your parents keep the directions for your crib with the crib and is it easier than putting together something from IKEA?" Sherlock had briefly turned towards where he had placed Sheralyn's car seat before heading over to set up the crib. He figured that he might as well keep the crib in the living room while he waited for John to get back as it would be easier to deal with Sheralyn without having to navigate stairs. "Of course John did not keep the directions with the crib." Sherlock mumbled. He probably didn't even think to grab them from the file drawer of instructions Sherlock knew John had. It took Sherlock about 10 minutes to get the crib set up. He realized he was exhausted when he kept putting the floor of the crib down before the sides were locked into place. He unbuckled a squirmy Sheralyn from her car seat and sat with her on the sofa checking her diaper and giving her the medicine Donovan had told him about.


	15. Chapter 15

An hour later John walks upstairs to see Sherlock lying on the sofa with Sheralyn cradled in his arms. Sherlock did not need an established IQ nearing 200 to realise that putting together the baby's crib was not exactly rocket science! He assembled it accurately and securely, but when he tried to settle the baby down into it and cover her with the Solar System quilt DS Donovan had gifted Mary with during the baby shower (now THAT was a mean dig, and he fully intended to get back at her at the first possible opportunity over a case), he was still in a forgiving mood, seeing how diligently and practically she had handled the whole operation, even getting that dimwit DI Dimmock to co-operate in saving Mycroft and Anthea and securing the Moriarty personality. 

But after having changed and bathed Sheralyn for the umpteenth time that day, he went into the shower himself, feeling grubby after all the hustle and bustle following John's and Sheralyn's arrival at the doorstep of 221B, and as he relaxed under the hot water, he felt so tired that he couldn't even be bothered to dry his hair properly. 

He warmed Sheralyn's formula as per instructions, fed her, held her in the medically approved way to burp, placing a tea-towel over his dressing gown, then, as she seemed to cling to the lapels of said camel-hair gown, he lay down on the sofa, with his precious charge laid along his chest, feeling drowsy and in need of some serious nap-time!

Which is exactly the position Dr Watson found them in, trudging up the seventeen steps to the flat, bone weary and drop-dead tired, but with a bit of news that couldn't wait:  
"You two seem to have hit it off well together, but, you know what, genius, Moriarty's lab tests conclusively proved that Sheralyn does NOT have two fathers, just one, and, much as it pains me to say this, she's his daughter! Your DNA kit for Beginners is only a load of you-know-what!" 

Had Sherlock not been so tired, he would have jumped up in indignation, completely oblivious of the sleeping baby on his chest, but, fortunately for Sheralyn, she was spared an unceremonious drop to the floor as he opened those wonderful cerulean eyes in consternation and gasped: "But that is impossible!"

"Shall we try 'improbable'? came Dr Watson's acerbic retort, as he began shedding clothes, on his way to the bathroom. Then he did a double-take: "Why does your hair look like you have been electrocuted?"

"Oh really, John, today we have been through Hell and back, and all you care about is my curly hair? For shame!" 

Dr Watson stopped on his way to the bathroom, fists flexing and unflexing "Sherlock, at this moment I wouldn't give a horse's piss on how your unruly locks look. The fact remains that the beautiful little creature I thought was mine, was actually sired by Moriarty, whose DNA samples show he is very much alive, and the same psychopath who tried to blow me up and who drove you to that swan dive off the roof of Bart's"

"Could you lower your voice, Ms Marie Elizabeth Sheralyn Watson is currently sleeping, and I DO appreciate the peace and quiet! So what, think of her as a child you adopted! We shall raise her jointly and finally be able to lay that Behaviourism theory to rest! The daughter of a psychopath and a trained assassin will be raised with all the love, care and affection we are both capable of, and then we shall see if nurture shall have won over nature! Maybe she will become a great detective or a splendid doctor!"

"Sherlock, are you willing to let the little cuckoo rule our hearts and minds for the foreseeable future?" whispered an indignant Dr Watson.

"No, John, I intend to succeed. Now, go and have your bath while the geyser is still full of hot water," replied Sherlock in a deadly serious mien, and settled the snoozing baby more comfortably on his chest, as Dr Watson heaved a deep sigh and made his way to a long, relaxing soak. After the day's events, he felt he had earned it!

Sherlock dozed off again with Sheralyn on his chest. He woke with a start 2 hours later noticing that the flat was quiet. He carefully laid Sheralyn in her crib and checked on John. John had been just stirred up enough to stay awake during a bath, but at the same time he was also noticeably exhausted from the day's events. Sherlock wanted to make sure that his best friend had not overly relaxed while soaking. It was the last thing that Sheralyn needed at the moment. He also realized that he need to use the loo.

Sherlock knocked on the bathroom door, "John, just checking to see if you're still in here. I fell asleep again and didn't hear you go by or anything. John?" Sherlock was not getting a response. He carefully opened the door trying to be respectful of his friend for once. He was surprised to see John floating on his back with his pants on just barely fitting in the length of the tub sound asleep. Sherlock was startled for a brief fraction of a second before carefully trying to wake up John when a sharp, imperative knock on the flat door coincided with a wail from the crib!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said at the beginning, this is a collaborative effort so sometimes character's name might get slightly altered without warning as you may have noticed. I only correct spelling errors not necessarily unexpected name changes. It keeps the story more exciting this way.


	16. Chapter 16

Being a genius at deductions did not make Sherlock more organised than the average human male in dealing with everyday little crises: John asleep in the bathtub, skin probably thoroughly wrinkled in the water which had grown cold in the meantime, an uncomfortable, fidgeting six-month old in her crib and someone wanting his attention. Talk about his hair looking all frizzy a few hours ago, now he pulled at it and murmured: "Prioritise, prioritise!" Somewhere in the back of his head he could hear an echo of Dr Watson's frequent scolding: "And remember to breathe!"

Tying up the ends of his robe's sash, he went to the door, to be met with a smiling Sergeant Donovan!  
"Good morning, f..." That's as far as she got before he placed a hand over her mouth: "Sally, so God help me, if you say that word today, I shall forget myself and my upbringing and punch you in the mouth! I am faced with two rather important crises right now and I need your help" He took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye and used the 'p' word. 

Immediately, the young woman's demeanour changed to a stance of pure business-like no nonsense. : "What do you need?" 

It was said in all innocence, since they had never been close, but the flashback to Molly's heart-rendingly matter-of -fact question at one of his darkest moments came unbidden. 

"Hey, Holmes, you have never fainted on me yet, and I shan't allow it to happen on my watch, particularly since you have become such an important witness! How can I help?" she asked, grabbing both his hands to steady him, and he allowed her to guide him to one of the kitchen chairs. She sat down opposite him, still keeping hold of his hands. 

"All right, now let's start putting things in order, shall we?" she smiled, and for the first time it was genuine concern for him that he could read in her demeanour. 

"Well, first we need to get John out of the tub, probably manhandle him to his old room, make sure he's kept dry and warm. He fell asleep while having a bath about three hours ago. Then, I shall need to look after the baby, and then you can give me all the news." he managed to articulate, while his mind was doing all sorts of unexpected deductions about her. 

"Since you asked so nicely, let's get started," she replied briskly, "and stop analysing me right now, or ..."

"Or you will call me a freak again! You know what, Sally, it stopped hurting when I was about twelve, right after preparatory school. Hurt a boy long enough, and from a point on the taunt loses its sting. Why do you think I taunted you right back over Anderson or whoever had caught your fancy? Right, let's heave John out of that tub!"

Dr Watson had been so tired that even when both Sherlock and Sally heaved him out of the cold water, got rid of his sopping underwear, wrapped him in a large bath towel and tamped him dry, he only muttered incoherent words. 

Sherlock found one of John's old bathrobes folded in the dry linen cabinet, they put it on the still mostly-sleeping Dr Watson, and then Sally helped Sherlock lift the inert form in a proper fireman's lift for the trudge upstairs. 

"Why does he not react, Holmes, did you drug his tea last night? Like when you made him miss a whole Wednesday once?" Sally asked, unable to understand why Sherlock went suddenly from pale to boiled-lobster red. "Trust me, Sally, that is not a story for a lady's ears", he hissed. 

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm no lady, Holmes! Oh, what the Hell, let's get on with this!"

For a man of his slight build, Sherlock had developed enough power through his assiduous swimming practice that he managed to get the still-drowsy Dr Watson up to his old bedroom, plop him down on the quilt, roll him over to get the quilt and the bedspread free, tuck him in and finally unbend. "What, you're not going to kiss him goodnight?" Sally couldn't help herself say.

"In case you have noticed, DS Donovan, it's morning, and whatever Mrs. Hudson has been saying all these years, he just isn't my type, to put it in words you can relate to!" 

Sally had to admit that when he drew himself up to his full height, designer coat or no, he cut an imposing figure. She swallowed her retort, and together they went to look after the poor baby, whose wail had reached critical point: Sheralyn was almost cyanotic with crying. 

"Here, let me help," Sally said, most likely trying to make up for her faux pas. She picked Sheralyn up from the cot, and held her in a professionally accepted manner. The moment the baby girl lay safely in Sally's hands, she stopped crying and hiccoughed from the effort of drawing a normal breath. "Holmes, are you sure you're not the father? She already has your tendency of going into hypoxaemia from lack of breathing!"

"Sally, I may have done drugs in my life, but I would surely remember sleeping with "Mary", so could you make the tea... (And here was the 'p' word again), while I change her nappy and prepare her formula?"

"No problem, Holmes, I can do both the tea and the formula, God knows we had to do it at NSY! But you have hardly any clean mugs left!" 

"Then use the empty jam jars, and mine is black..."

"... with two sugars, yes, DI Lestrade made me prepare enough tea for you that it would stick, eventually!"


	17. Chapter 17

Once he had changed, washed, dried off and used enough talcum powder on Sheralyn to create a small cloud in the still misty bathroom, he opened the bathroom window just a crack to let the humidity out, and holding Sheralyn to his chest, he went to sit at the kitchen table, where the baby's formula was at the right temperature, so he began feeding her. 

That earned him another of Sally's acerbic remarks: "You know, Holmes, you would make a great father! You let your tea grow cold, and I know that you prefer it piping hot, to look after Moriarty's daughter."

"You are wrong, there, Sally, and I don't think you two have been properly introduced: Ms Marie Elizabeth Sheralyn Watson, please make the acquaintance of DS Sarah Jane Donovan," he said, and held out the baby's chubby left hand for Sally to grasp. 

"And now that two out of the three matters have been dealt with, tell me the news, you're obviously bursting with it!"

"In a nutshell, everything is going according to plan..."

"Then why does Graham want me down at Scotland Yard?"

"For the umpteenth time, Holmes, it's 'Gregory'', Greg for short, and the news concerns your parents!"

"And what about my parents? I assume they got to their safe location without too many issues. My mother called at the most inopportune time and almost blew the operation at their house. She likes to do that sometimes, you know, not listen to directions and such. People think I'm bad." Sherlock replied somewhat coolly while showing a hint of concern. As much as he'd never admit it publicly, he did love his parents very much, and with his mother having the knowledge to start WWIII, he wanted to make sure they were indeed safe.

"Yes they arrived safely. They were delayed because of a traffic accident not involving them. Your mother wants to know that you 2 are safe and an overall update. Your father called us at NSY per, as I understand it, the pre-arranged details. All Lestrade told your father is that you and Mycroft were safe and we'd make sure that 1 of you would call them as soon as possible. Apparently Mycroft won't be able to make any calls until much later today at the earliest." Sally replied with an impressed look on her face noticing how Sherlock was holding then burping Sheralyn like a true dad. "Well if you ever change your mind about what it takes to become a parent, I think you'll be a decent one just from what I've seen the last several minutes. I've got nothing else at this point and will let you get back to sleep."

"Thank you Sally. I mean it. You helped out well last night. Before you go, let's check on John just in case. I think he'll be fine, but..."

Both DS Donovan and Sherlock made their way up to Dr Watson's old bedroom, where Sally carefully situated the still sleeping man sideways: "You know, Holmes, it doesn't do to have gone to all this trouble and then have the good doctor choke on his own vomit!" she remarked, straightening up, and the sight that greeted her was even more alarming: Sherlock had gone deathly pale again! How could she know that these were the exact words Irene, his unique Irene, had said to Dr Watson after she had drugged him in her bedroom! 

"You know, Holmes, you cannot deal with everything as if it were a mental exercise! You suffer from a long, nasty load of shit, so why not consult a specialist?" 

He managed to pull himself together long enough to answer: "Sally, sometimes you're a life saver! No, I cannot consult a psychotherapist; I have driven enough of them into early retirement ever since Mummy took me to the first one during my first year at secondary school! Now, why don't we dragoon Mrs. Hudson into keeping an eye on Sheralyn and drive to the Yard to deal with the mind-numbingly boring paperwork?"

Rather than enquire into his peculiar mood swings, Sally heeded the age-old advice about the better part of valour, squared her shoulders and agreed: "Right, we shall go to the Yard as soon as we have washed and dried everything piled up in your kitchen sink."

He groaned loudly, but she swatted his arm: "It's no good trying to elude me, Holmes, we shall do this together, and that's final! Right, do you prefer to wash or dry?"

"Wash, I think, if I get into deducing mode while drying we end up with broken crockery, and John has never liked that," he sighed dramatically. "But then it's straight on to the Yard, promise?"

It was Sally's turn to sigh: whose fault, except Mycroft's could it be that a grown man could regress to a four-year old petulant child without any warning? 

However, when Sherlock went downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, he discovered that the night's excitement had been too much for the old lady, who was sound asleep after taking one of her 'herbal soothers' , so he climbed back up to ask DS Donovan to retrieve the baby's harness.

She gaped at him: "Surely, you are NOT going to appear in the Yard with the baby strapped to you? There weren't just me and Anderson you used to piss off regularly, Holmes!" 

"I don't see as I have much option, Sally. John is out for the count, Mrs. Hudson is resting, Mycroft is still recovering from the tear gas he inhaled, so is Anthea, my parents are in a safe house in Edinburgh and I wouldn't trust John's sister to guard her, especially in these altered circumstances!" 

In the end, she relented, dug out the baby harness and helped him strap it on securely before picking up Sheralyn and placing her in it. 

"Well, thank God for small favors," he huffed, it is July and this contraption will not even crease my jacket, I'm not sure if I could have managed with a coat on."

After locking the flat, he helped Sally into a taxi and they were whisked to DI Dimmock's office in pretty short order, where Sally took the baby off him so that he could give his statement and sign it, standard procedure, excruciatingly boring but unavoidable. Up to this point, things were going well, and when the purely bureaucratic side of things had been dispensed with, Lestrade made his appearance, an added bonus. The two recapitulated the whole previous evening, while the baby lay quietly in Sherlock's lap, as Sally had needed to attend to some mundane piece of police work. 

And then his phone pinged. After some maneuvering (tailored trouser pockets did not make for good receptacles when one had a baby on their lap, he made a mental note to himself) he managed to get it out and looked at the message: of all the times in the world, Seb had once again chosen the most inopportune moment to bother him! 

"What is the matter now?" asked Lestrade, his brow furrowing. 

"Lady Sanderson has need of my services, apparently, and Seb is playing lapdog to the banker, as usual!" 

"Sherlock, if it is a police matter, don't keep us in the dark!" cried a frustrated DI. 

"For the moment, I shall need to leave the baby in your collective good hands. Lestrade, thank you for your kind offer", smiled Sherlock, straightened up from his usual semi-recumbent position in the DI's chair, buttoned up his jacket and went out the door. 

"By the time we locate her mother, Sheralyn will have turned the Yard into her regular kindergarten" sighed the much-put-upon Detective Inspector.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock left with a flourish and was out the door before Lestrade could say anything else. He flagged a cab and was on his way to Shad Sanderson.

While en route, he sent a text message to John letting him know where his daughter was at, what he was doing, and to check on Mrs. Hudson later. He arrived at Shad Sanderson relatively quickly for the time of day. "Hello Seb, how may I help Lady Sanderson? By the way, your watch is still wrong. It is now 3 days behind instead of the 2 days behind it was approximately 4 years ago when John and I last helped you. And you do have a ketchup stain on your tie this time, only it's from Korea not Manhattan."

Sherlock couldn't exactly help being a little snarky as he was still waking up for the day after the excitement from the afternoon and evening before. "Lady Sanderson wants your expert opinion on what she refers to as a delicate situation. She does not want it all over the press hence not going directly to the police about it. She wasn't even sure if it was a case for them to begin with. Here is her contact information. She would like to see you right away at the location listed on the bottom. She had you come here so things could be handled in a more secure fashion rather than providing the details by phone, text, or email as you probably have already figured out. There should be a car outside ready to pick you up in a few minutes. The chauffeur will refer to her as Mrs. Jones when he addresses you. I realize you don't need this as incentive, but she insisted that I hand you this check and to let you know that there will be another one when the situation is resolved." Seb replied mostly dismissing Sherlock's attitude. He got up from his chair and as he escorted Sherlock out of his office back to the front door continued, "I thank you for the help as she is beginning to get a bit annoying."

"I'll do what I can." Sherlock said not completely believing Seb's last statements. He walked out of the bank and saw a black sedan pull up to the kerb. He slowly headed towards it waiting for the driver to exit the vehicle confirming that it was indeed his ride to Lady Sanderson's location. 

"Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Jones awaits the honor of your presence for morning tea." Sherlock picked up his pace a little bit and climbed in the back seat of the sedan. The car was empty except for the driver.

While he was en route to the location, he ran the last few hours through his head trying to sort it all out. He was still confused about the DNA test as his testing equipment was not some childhood test kit for beginners. It was the latest technology that St. Bart's and most other good hospitals were using. He continued to sort through all of the material and place it in the proper areas of his mind palace when the chauffeured car stopped before one of those solid, reclusive, solidly built Victorian pavilions in Esher. Completely undistinguished Late Victorian mass produced, but with its elegant portico and its impressive entrance, still a reminder of things past. 

A neat, properly attired maid opened the door, mutely signed for him to follow, so Sherlock instinctively went into upper-middle-class mode, straightened his jacket, thanked whatever Providence was protecting him right now that he had chosen to wear one of his white shirts that morning and followed her.

He was shown into what would have been called a lady's morning room in the time of his great-grandfather. A lady around forty, still stunningly beautiful, matured like excellent port, refined, perfectly made up and coiffed, not a hair out of place sat at her boudoir. Old school values die hard, once they have been ingrained into one: he bowed from the waist, and as she extended her hand, he let his lips leave a feathery touch on her hand: "Mrs. Jones, I understand you require my services."

"Mr. Holmes, thank you very much for coming so promptly, the matter is of such delicate nature that I need your very specialised services, not to mention your complete discretion! Mr. Wilkes assured me that although you tend to run off in the mouth about your observations, you are discreet when the matter merits it." 

"Well, that comes from the fact that while we were at Oxford together, I would announce to all and sundry who had been... He stopped, not wanting to use the word 'shagging' in her presence...having sex together the previous night except Sebastian. You see, he has never called me a freak, so I was strangely touched by his diplomacy and tact. Even when I investigated the incident at the bank, he treated me well enough, apart from one moment when his guard slipped and he looked questioningly at me, as if to say: you have got a ... friend? But you did not call me here to talk about MY little foibles, could you please, tell me how I may assist you?"

"Mr. Holmes, as you may know, I am quite a bit younger than Sir William Sanderson, my husband and co-founder of Shad Sanderson Commercial Bank. Lately, he has been bedridden due to heart trouble, but with your reputation for solving complicated cases, I consulted him and then decided on calling for you."

"You have nothing to fear in terms of any indiscretion, your ladyship, pardon, Mrs. Jones. Tell me what happened."

Lady Sanderson needed a moment to collect her thoughts: here was a famous private investigator who also looked like an accomplished thief. A worldly, refined gentleman, whose stance and behaviour reminded her of a trained agent. She took a deep breath, collected her thoughts and began: "Last Sunday evening I had arranged a little bridge party, which was moderately entertaining. I went to sleep rather early, you have to understand that since Sir William has been having his cardiac crises, we sleep in separate bedrooms...” and found herself blushing under his gaze. In point of fact, he had already deduced two quick and rather messy affairs on the lady's part, but, contrary to his usual unfiltered comments, this time he kept his thoughts for himself.... “I was awoken at about ten past four by a noise which seemed to be that of a closing door, specifically the door of this room, which lies adjacent to my bedroom, and which leads, as you have surely noticed, to the corridor. After a moment, I got up. I do not frighten easily, Mr. Holmes, I turned on the light in here, there was nobody here, but that little glass-fronted showcase had fallen, with all its contents, objets d'art, statuettes and other Knick-Knacks, some of which were broken. I went to look for my husband, who, due to serious problems in breathing, was still awake, propped up on four pillows, reading some reports from the bank. He had heard nothing! He became upset and called the butler, who immediately started a search of the grounds, to no avail."

"Please, excuse me, Mrs. Jones, but I have a message to send," he interrupted her, firing off a text to Sally about Sheralyn's state of being. When she texted back that she had personally overseen the baby's feeding and burping times, he texted back: “You are rapidly becoming my favourite person in the Yard!" to which she replied: “One of these days, I may make you hold true to your word!”

As soon as he was assured of the baby's continued well-being, he turned once more to face the formidably beautiful Lady Sanderson.

"As you were saying..."

"Yes, the only things the search unearthed were half a burnt candle and a rude tool like a chisel, with a very dirty wooden handle. We knew that that afternoon, a plumber had repaired the tap of my husband's washbasin, and when the proprietor was conducted, he recognised the tool as belonging to Jeremiah Snooks, one of his best workers, who seems to have headed for the Greek Islands barely two hours after completing the work, and who has not been heard of since."

"And, in your mind, Mrs. Jones, there has been an audacious burglary without effect!"

"Certainly without effect, Mr. Holmes, since nothing seems to have been taken."

"Puerile but intriguing, all the same. Oh, how I wish John were here: this is a peculiar level five that could upgrade to a nine in a second" was Sherlock's first thought. 

"Your ladyship is not giving me the full facts! What lies behind that panel?"

"Nothing, I assure you, Mr. Holmes!" she protested vehemently.

"Dear lady, as much as I like you personally, for having the guts to marry a man so much older than you purely for financial security, and then having the courage to deceive him with at least two lovers, I would advise you not to lie to the only ally you have on this world, because if I abandon the case, the police will come trudging in, muddying the place up and holding you responsible for not reporting the incident as soon as it happened. The most cursory of inspections has allowed me to see that the edges of that rectangular panel are a bit worn, separated by the rest of the woodwork by a very slight crack, which leads to the inevitable conclusion that there is a small safe hidden beneath it.

He could see her shiver, but with a determined mien, she got up, made the panel move and uncovered a small wall safe, not unlike Irene's in what seemed half a lifetime and a simulated suicide away.

With an assured touch, Lady Sanderson input the standard six-digit code and opened the safe. Immediately, she took out its single enclosure, a long leather jewelry box with the initials of a famous jeweler's meme embossed on the green leather, opened it with nervous fingers and took out a beautiful three-rang pearl necklace. Mutely, she handed it to him.

Sherlock took it in his hands, ran his fingers over the lustrous pearls, briefly weighted it in his hands, checked the almost perfect uniformity of the orbs and raised his eyes to meet hers: "Now I see why you need my services, Mrs. Jones. When did you first discover the substitution?"

"Mr. Holmes you are even better than Sebastian made me believe! How did you deduce it so quickly?"

"Those thieves of yours were so adroit so audacious, and yet nothing seemed to have been taken. Here's A necklace, but can you be sure it is yours?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, I can't because it should have a tiny date inscribed inside the clasp, and the date is inaccurate!"

"Perfect, just perfect, Mrs. Jones, now you understand the burglar did not simply take the original; he substituted it with a copy."

"Oh and you may want to check on your husband. I do believe his heart condition has taken a turn for the worse. I will look into this matter of the necklace for you and get back to you as soon as possible." Sherlock said his speaking pace speeding up a little as he went. "I will let myself out."

Before Lady Sanderson could react, Sherlock was almost to the front door. He sent a text to his brother knowing that he should be just about done with being observed for the tear gas effects from the night before. He needed a certain bit of help that only his brother could provide. Besides his brother owed him a little for the daring rescue from the night before.

Sherlock was back in the black car and quickly being ushered to the proprietor's shop. He had a few questions to ask and had a feeling that there were people more than just Jeremiah Snooks involved in the thievery. He quickly shot off a message to John: "Come at once to the plumber's shop on Wandsworth Rd. Bring Mrs. Hudson. Make sure she is wearing some nice looking jewelry. -SH"

Sherlock received a call from Mycroft letting him know that Jeremiah Snooks had been found in the Greek Islands and was awaiting a return flight to England. He also gave Sherlock some very disturbing news. "What?! What do you mean that technically isn't Moriarty. He has a twin?" The cabbie almost lost control of the car when Sherlock yelled as he was not expecting the sudden noise. Calming down some, “We need to meet. Give me 2 hours. Text me the location. I'll take a cab."


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock was half in shock. He could always tell twins apart. He could even tell if they were identical or fraternal without asking. If Moriarty indeed had a twin, the twin did a good job of sounding and acting like Jim.

While on his way to meet up with Mycroft to gather some vitally important social gossip and later on to meet with John, Sherlock received a truly terrifying text from Sally: 'Come at once, baby in critical condition.'

He quickly asked the chauffeur to drop him off at NSY and fired off texts to both Mycroft that he would be late, and to John that a visit to the plumber would be redundant under the circumstances. 

When he arrived at his destination, he thanked the man and told him to pick him up in six hours, with his mistress's approval, from Baker Str., and then he rushed as fast as his long legs could carry him past the security check and up to Sally's cubicle. She had placed the baby in her own large, overstuffed chair, and was kneeling beside it. "What is the matter?" No point in conversational niceties with DS Donovan. 

She turned at the sound of his voice, sighed in relief and plunged right into her story: " It may have started with her ear infection from when the alleged firearms expert, your Dr Watson, let the Peacemaker Colt slip through his grasp and detonate right next to her, it may have been that she was exposed to too much residue of the tear gas both you and your John brought into the flat, it may have been her crying herself cyanotic, but now she is suffering from what seems to be a full-blown asthma attack and she has got a fever! I have already called the duty doctor, but he's a GP, like your John, we need a specialist! "

He bent over the wheezing, distressed baby, her big green-tinted brown eyes wide in suffering, and he pulled out his mobile again "Right, I'm calling Sir John Willks!"

"The Queen's consulting paediatrician? He must be a hundred, if he's a day!"

"He has been the family's paediatrician, he looked after both me and Mycroft, even in his dotage, and I trust him" he shushed her and made the phone call. 

The doctor was perfectly willing to have the baby admitted to Great Ormond Hospital, where he would call in a few favours and pull a few strings. Sherlock ended the call with a "Thank you, sir", which left Sally open-mouthed! 

"I do wish you would not revert to goldfish mode when something taxes your comprehension. And by the way, he is the one who recommended the same baby formula for all of us, Cow&and Gate; it even got official approval to bear the logo The Milk for Royal Babies, and now look at us all! Misfits every single one-off us, but healthy and strong! And I reiterate, John is not MY Dr Watson!"

Once the ambulance with the proper equipment arrived, Sherlock simply said he was the baby's uncle and got into the ambulance, holding onto her chubby little hand, and once again found himself praying to any higher being available not to let his goddaughter suffer any permanent harm. He considered texting John, but was unsure of the condition of his friend, and did not want to worry him until he had more conclusive evidence one way or another. 

The baby was rushed through Emergency, and there was Sir John waiting, leaning on a cane and not looking a day over eighty! Sally could be such a tease, he smiled to himself. "Sherlock, good to see you after so many years. How's Mycroft?"

"As well as one can be after a tear gas attack, sir, but raring to go as usual. Please, take care of her, she is the last remnant of a vow that has been torn to shreds." 

The Sherlock charm mode was working overtime, but the old man was not fooled: "Don't try that trick on me, Sherlock, it did not work the first time, when I had to prescribe your first enema after that dreadful constipation from formula milk, why should it work now?"

Sherlock actually blushed, which delighted the old doctor, who nodded and followed the little baby with the tiny oxygen mask on her face. 

The problem was that he could not wait to find out what was actually wrong with Sheralyn, so he asked the ward nurse and the receptionist to keep him or the baby's father, Dr Watson, informed of any new developments, and headed for the exit, texting Mycroft that he was on his way. 

A short time later found him at Mycroft's town residence, somewhere on Hampstead Heath, and he was pleased to see that his brother seemed fully recovered from the travails of the previous night. Contrary to his customary three-piece suits, Mycroft was lounging in his favourite Roccoco gilded tapisserie overstuffed chair, in a wine-red smoking jacket and tailored trousers. 

"You look entirely too well for a man who has been through what you did yesterday!" 

"Thank you for your concern, brother mine, but I'm not sure I could have made it alive out of that trap without your entirely over enthusiastic help! Now, what do you need to know?”

"I need all the gossip and all available information concerning Lady Sanderson and her pearl necklace from Asprey's."

"So, you're on another case, then!"

"Yes, and one which necessitates such careful handling that I may be forced to turn jewel thief"

Mycroft held up his hand: "Sherlock, you are and have always been essentially a law-breaker, the fact that to overcome this propensity makes you work for the forces of law and order is beside the point. I shall give you all I know about the Sanderson ménage. Pathetic, really, if you look close enough!"

"Yes, well, that would have been lovely, since it's a complicated case, if Sheralyn wasn't lying critically ill at St Ormond's, so be as quick and as precise as your weakened state allows... and there was the 'p'' word again!

Mycroft cocked an intrigued eyebrow at his baby brother, and began, "The faerie princess was her nickname in the society dances, dinners, and even high-end clubs. You have seen her now she is forty at least, but a twenty she was an ethereal being, all charm and poise, with that beautiful contralto voice laughing in your ear as you danced with her, always keeping you at arm’s length and still looking as if she were ready to melt into your arms in the next South American variant. She was seemingly above it all, and there were rumors of changing lovers every month, but never hard evidence, I remember scanning her while we were doing a particularly successful tango, and my deductions were that she had come straight from her lover's bed, yet not a hair out of place and her make-up beautifully applied..."

"Mycroft, you LIKED her, I am astounded!"

"I still like her, and save your petty digs at my behaviour. ... Then, at twenty-six she ups and marries Sir William Sanderson. I believe the American term is "gold-digger", but he was as utterly besotted with her as any of the rest of us, so why should she not choose financial security as well as a reputable name. Lately, as her husband's heart condition deteriorated, she was tempted into two affairs..."

"Yes, yes, I know all about that, I told her so to her face!" came the impatient retort. 

"And she didn't slap you hard enough to make your teeth rattle? Obviously not! The lady has learned patience, then." 

"Mycroft, John is awaiting my instructions, Sheralyn is in the Emergency ward at Great Ormond Hospital, the lady needs an answer to the very delicate answer as to how her precious pearl necklace could have been substituted without visible evidence of a burglary, and I have very little patience at the moment!" 

"When did you ever? You were a sunbeam as a toddler, impossible to catch, you became a sprite as you grew older, and even now you rush into danger like there's no tomorrow! My advice to you would be to check up on Sir William's connection to the plumber. And now let me rest a bit longer." 

"Thank you, Mycroft”, came a soft whisper as the elder Holmes closed his eyes, followed by a feather light touch on his cheek that felt like a kiss. One must be thankful for small mercies, he thought as he drifted off into a nap.

While on the way back to Baker Street. Sherlock texted John to await his arrival, then settled back and reconsidered the evidence: he never assumed, he deduced! Once he reached a particularly enlightening conclusion, he texted Sebastian to send him the name of Sir William's solicitors and then rode the rest of the way home deep in thought. 

The first words out of Dr Watson's mouth were, predictably, "Where's Sheralyn?” jumping up from his place at the computer desk. 

Sherlock removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and put the kettle on. Out of all their tea varieties, he chose a particularly strong Assam and only then did he turn to face the doctor: "John, Sheralyn is at Great Ormond Children's Hospital with an ear infection, a probable asthma attack, and under the good care of my personal paediatrician, and when we are given the all-clear, I expect we shall be able to visit her." 

The long-suffering Dr Watson had had entirely too much to bear since he first noticed his wife was missing! Without reason or rhyme, he lunged for Sherlock, but this time, the detective was not having any of it. He blocked Dr Watson's punch, used his hold to twist that wrist behind John's back, then chose a bear hug to keep him immobile: "John, as much as I care for you and my goddaughter, as much as I want the whole Moriarty thing cleared up, as much as I want Mary found safe, so that you continue your boring suburban life, I shan't put up with more physical attacks from you, drunk or sober! Are we clear?"

He could practically sense the good doctor calming down by his deep breaths. When he judged it safe, he let him go. And the kettle had just boiled!

Feeling that it was safe to turn his back to Dr Watson now, he let the strong tea seep in their respective mugs for a full five minutes, then added his two lumps of sugar, stirred, and handed John the unsweetened mug.

"OK, what can you tell me, then?" 

"In a nutshell, Mummy and Daddy are safe in Edinburgh, especially important now that the Russians are moving so many armed divisions to their Baltic borders, and Kaliningrad has become a major pawn in that game. Mary's daughter is, as I said, under constant medical care, Moriarty, or what Mycroft now considers to be his twin, is also under constant surveillance in a secure facility, and Sebastian chose this point in time to call for my services in a highly complicated domestic problem that requires the utmost discretion." 

"I have one or two questions of my own."

"I have never known to be reticent, John Watson, so ask away!"

"Who is behind all this? And what shall I do about Sheralyn?"

"I'm afraid I have no answer to your first question, especially now that Jim is not directly involved, and as for the second, she may not be your biological daughter, but she is still Mary's daughter and my goddaughter, which you made sure of at the time, over my protests. So, she is under our care. In the meantime, there's no need to go and see the plumber any more, instead, I must have an interview with our Blind Banker, Sir William Sanderson himself!


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock received a message back from Seb listing all of the solicitors for Sir William Sanderson. On the list were 2 very peculiar names. They were…Once Sherlock looked at the names of the solicitors, he realised that one of them was closely connected to the plumber, as Snooks was not such a common name! 

He texted Sebastian to set up a meeting with the retired banker, then rushed back home, to pick up his lock pick tools and change into a black outfit consisting of black jeans, black roll-neck pullover, black elastic shoes, and stuffed a Balaklava hood in his back pocket. 

As per arrangement, the black limousine was already waiting in the falling darkness, and he was surprised to see that Anthea herself was driving: Mycroft aiding and abetting in a common crime was beyond comic, but he was thankful for his brother's precautions at the moment! 

Silently, the car pulled out onto the traffic and made its way to Esher. He tapped on the separation window to let Anthea know where to drop him off. He would make the rest of the way on foot. No need to take foolish risks, it was bad enough that she knew he was going to Esher. Any more tangible proof and even Anderson would be able to join the dots!

He moved surreptitiously through the back gardens of the adjoining houses, always on the alert for any alarm system, like the one Henry Knight had installed in his garden in what seemed another lifetime at this point. Finally, he reached the Sanderson pavilion, used his tools to pick the kitchen door and then put on his infrared goggles, to make out any laser security system lying in his path to the banker's bedroom. He avoided a pressure pad just in the nick of time, easily located the others, and when he reached the banker's bedroom he didn't hesitate to use his prepared chloroform pad on the sleeping octogenarian. The old methods always worked best, he had to hand it to Mycroft. Quickly, he made his way to the washbasin, took out a wrench and a French key and went to work. Finally, with his booty in his jeans' pocket, he exited as softly as he had entered and made his way back to where Anthea was waiting for him, lights switched off. Once she saw his black-clad figure emerge from seemingly nowhere, she switched on the engine, he hopped in the limousine, and they were once more headed for London. 

He switched on his mobile, and the first text was from John: apparently, Sheralyn had overcome her inexplicable attack, and Sir John had requested a full spectrum allergy test. Well, Sherlock couldn't blame the old doctor, seeing as Moriarty... Moriarty's twin, he corrected himself, had almost fallen victim to the tear gas!

And that he appositely remembered his remark to John when shooting the wall "What has happened to the criminal classes of England? It's a good thing I am not one of them!" and chuckled to himself: now he WAS one of them, even in a good cause!

While in the back of the limo, Sherlock changed back into his normal looking clothes including his Belstaff. He had Anthea drop him off at Great Ormond so he could check on his name sake. "John, how is she doing with all of the tests? I'm not completely surprised by the possible allergy attack even though I tried to get the residue off of me. Also, while talking with Mycroft earlier, I discovered that Sheralyn was supposedly going to be named Marie Elizabeth Sheralyn that's why I referred to as that on accident. It might come out on occasion without warning as we figure out what happened to Mary. Now I must be off to deal with the Sanderson case. Do keep me posted on Sheralyn."

Sherlock was off before he even got a reply from John who was still a bit in shock from everything that had happened in the last 30 hours. Sherlock thought it was most interesting that 2 of the solicitors on Sir William Sanderson's list had the same last names as the plumber who worked at their house and the owner of the plumbing business. Sherlock had Anthea drop him off back at Baker Street where he planned his next course of action.

He received a text message from Sebastian, informing him that Lady Sanderson needed to see him as soon as humanly possible. This time Mycroft's help was out of the question, so he refreshed himself quickly, straightened his rebellious curls as fast as he could, finally hailed a cab and had it drive to Esher. Oh, this was all going to go on somebody's account, he fumed! 

This time he was shown straight in to Lord Sanderson’s bedroom, where he found a distraught Lady Sanderson at her husband's bedside. The financier seemed to be suffering from a terminal cardiac crisis; his words came out in a hoarse whisper, by fits and stops. Sherlock perceived the erect figure of a doctor hovering by the window, who gave a somber shake of his head, as if to say 'too late'!  
Suddenly, Lord Sanderson tried to raise himself on his pillows:"Water, please" he gasped. Lady Sanderson shot out of her chair, went to the washbasin and poured out a glass of water, not even stopping to turn it off in her haste to hand the glass to her husband. 

After he had taken a sip, he turned to her and smiled:"The pearl necklace... you should know... you didn't marry me out of love, but I expected you to keep to your vows... you married me because of my fortune..! I knew that, I accepted that, but I could not tolerate your recent love affairs... you have not been a good wife..! This is how you are being punished, and I accept death, I embrace it in the full knowledge that your precious pearls disappeared down the conduit... and the water is still running, so all of them have dropped down the drain by now!" 

Lady Sanderson once again jumped up to turn off the tap, and then returned to her husband's side "Do you hate me so much?" she asked, but was rewarded by a long breathy rattle. The doctor put a hand on her shoulder; she got up and left her dying husband in competent hands. 

She motioned Sherlock to follow her and went to her morning room, where she ordered tea. He kept her under observation all this time, and her suppressed agitation was palpable, but he deduced it did not come from her husband's imminent death or what he had said about the pearls. There was something more serious at stake here, and he surmised it had to do with the solicitors. He patted the pocket of his jacket, where the pearl necklace he had 'rescued' during his nightly excursion lay safely, but something held him back, the man who spewed deductions and tactless observations as soon as they came into his mind, for once silent in the face of so much agitation and anxiety!  
Finally, as she kept pacing the room, he took a deep breath and decided that things had to be clarified: "As your ladyship must be aware, upon your husband's death you would normally receive your legal portion out of his will. But here's the first obstacle; your husband has two solicitors, the name of one being the same as the plumber who was called in to do a rather special job, as your husband just told you. This solicitor must have in his hands a will disinheriting you with the proverbial penny. I think that his previous will, in the hands of the other solicitor, made you his sole heir. You must decide how I am to proceed from now on! Sebastian is a reliable person, but, like you at this moment, he doesn't handle crises well. There's a way out of this rather sordid mess, but you must permit me to act as I think fit. Only in that case will you be able to retain your good name and your pearl necklace!" 

She whirled to face him, the tall man in his bespoke suit, handmade shoes and inscrutable face leaning against the windowsill. 

"Mr. Holmes, your rather flamboyant past, as recorded in the press and in Dr Watson's blog, is not a very reassuring letter of reference, but I trust Sebastian (Sherlock noted the intimacy, he would have to observe his friend a bit more closely; had he been one of Lady Sanderson's two lovers?), so I shall trust you. I hereby give you carte blanche in this debacle." 

Having received her reassurance, he once more patted his jacket pocket, where the real necklace lay, but he decided not to give it to her before scouting out the whole solicitor situation. 

In fact, like a professional entertainer, he had too many balls in the air, what with his parents in the safe house, Mycroft's usual meddling, John's ambiguous feelings towards Sherlock's goddaughter, and the person who claimed to be the baby's father but was NOT Jim! 

Just at that moment, his phone pinged with a message from his trusted friend: Sheralyn's condition was improving; all the tiresome allergy tests had been completed. He smiled at the good news.   
Agitated or not, the erstwhile professional beauty could not resist a coquettish action: she offered him her hand: "Surely, Mr. Holmes, someone must have told you that when your smile reaches your eyes, you look breathtaking?" 

He snapped back to the present, brought her hand to his lips and barely touched it, then bowed formally and excused himself. 

Once outside, he felt the need for a cigarette more than ever, but instead stuffed his hands in his pockets, determined to march to the main road in search of a cab. Oh yes, He would make sure Sebastian never forgot THIS debt, quite apart from the financial considerations!

After having found a cab to take him back to London, Sherlock considered his options concerning Lady Sanderson. After all, his nocturnal visit to her villa had rendered more than one piece of evidence.

Now, after the broken declarations of the dying banker, he knew that there were two wills in existence, and that he had to pay a strictly illegal visit to the offices of Mr. Jebediah Snooks, as the solicitor's connection to the plumber who had carried out that fiendish little piece of work was more than fortuitous, and he could hear Mycroft's jibe about the universe being rarely so lazy.

He fished out his phone and saw that the gentleman had offices close to the Inner Temple, better for working with the barristers who had offices there, but he still hoped that it would be a simple matter of breaking and entering, because in his two-year long crusade against Moriarty, he had certainly not kept up with all the literature concerning the latest model safes and their security mechanisms. He had easily opened Lord Sanderson's home safe, but he doubted that he could handle the latest in the market. Above all, this little game of his had to be carried out alone, without the companionable silence of John during so many of their stakeouts in the past, not unless he was willing to risk his best friend sharing a holding cell by the end of the night, and then who would look after his goddaughter? Certainly not Mycroft!

However, after he stopped by Baker Street and once more changed into his completely black attire with soft-soled shoes and gathered his burbling equipment, he still had some time to go before it grew dark enough for his purposes, so he decided to drop by the hospital and see the baby.

"John, you called her a little cuckoo, what are you doing here?" was his exclamation when he saw his best friend sitting by the baby's bed.

"Strange as it may seem to you, Sherlock, she is still legally my daughter, I'm a doctor myself, and I couldn't, in all conscience keep an octogenarian on call just because he looked after you and Mycroft and thinks your mother a saint!"

Sherlock bent over the baby to assure himself that her breathing beneath the tiny oxygen mask was regular, and he brushed a finger along her impossibly soft cheek.

"You know, when you look at her like that, I wish everything was still right in this world that she was safely home, with Mary..."

"John, not now, I am in the middle of a very delicate case and I cannot afford sentiment, because..."

“... because it is found on the losing side!" finished Dr Watson, in a voice tinged with tiredness.  
Sherlock had intentionally sidetracked his friend from thoughts of Mary, since the pair of them had had hardly any time to investigate her disappearance.

They spent some time in companionable silence, and then it was time for all visitors to leave. Dr Watson, as the parent, could stay, but Sherlock rose to go. He once more bent over her, checked that she was sleeping comfortably and brushed his lips against her forehead, eliciting a surprised look from his friend, which he deigned not explain. If all went well tonight, he would be able to visit her in the morning!


	21. Chapter 21

In order to carry out his plan undetected, however, he would need Mycroft's help yet again! Bother! He sent a quick text requesting the location of all CCTV cameras around the Inner Temple area. "What are you doing in that part of London and why have you deleted the relevant data from your mind? MH" 

The thought of being able to see Sheralyn sometime next morning was the only one which prevented Sherlock from releasing the frustration of this terribly secretive case of his by using vituperative language against his brother. "It's for a case! SH"

"Anthea is on well-deserved sick leave, I shall have her replacement forward them to you, MH"

When his phone pinged again with a "Thank you. SH", Mycroft's eyebrows shot up; this was the second time after Dr Watson had brought Mrs. Watson's daughter to Baker Street that his little brother had shown respect for common decencies. Something was definitely wrong, but Mycroft was only human, after all, he didn't possess telepathic abilities!

With the schematic downloaded, Sherlock quickly made his way to the offices of Mr. Jebediah Snooks and after ensuring that no patrolling Bobby was in the vicinity, he brought out his burglar's toolkit and went to work as quietly as possible.

Once inside, he turned on his special tiny torch and immediately knew that the case would be solved to the entire satisfaction of Lady Sanderson: all wills were located in alphabetical order in drawers lining the entire surface of what he deduced was the senior clerk's room, a neat place, with its computer atop a solid mahogany desk. Apparently, Mr. Nooks had inherited the business from his father and had seen no reason to change a perfectly running system! 

Almost with a sigh of relief, he picked the lock of the relevant drawer, located the Sanderson file, extracted it, and was in the process of relocking it, when his peripheral vision caught the reflection of a torchlight shining through the office windows! He had forgotten the night watchman, a private security guard paid by all the legal gentlemen to keep an eye out. He eclipsed himself in the Stygian gloom under the desk and swore at himself: there was always something!

Fortunately for his reputation, Sheralyn's continued well-being, Lady Sanderson's interests and Mycroft's blood pressure, the guard continued on his rounds, and only then did Sherlock realise he had kept his breath all the while. With an almost audible sigh, he made his way out of the office, locking the door with a special tool that needed all his dexterity. By the time he had finished this last task, he was fairly certain he could not play his violin until his wrist had returned to its normal flexibility. What hold had Mycroft's Faerie Princess on him that he was willing to risk life and limb for her time and again?

Only after he had left the area did he start walking purposefully back to Baker Street, not daring to take a cab because its fare would show approximately where he had been. Home sweet home and a long and relaxing hot bath, then straight to bed. There were too many skeins to unravel still!

The next morning Sherlock awoke so late that he would almost miss the visiting hours at the hospital! In a tearing hurry, he got out of his nightclothes, took probably the shortest shower he had ever had, put on fresh clothes, remembering to remove the two absolutely necessary items for his interview with Lady Sanderson later on from his clothes, which he would need to have dry-cleaned, combed his hair so hastily that small tufts clung to the comb, laced his shoes and grabbed his phone from its charger, ruefully contemplating the tiny scratch which he had inflicted on it before going to bed. Well, one scratch did not an addict make, he mused, ran down the stairs, called out a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and frantically hailed a cab to take him to Great Ormond Children's Hospital.

He was grudgingly admitted by the head nurse, and rushed to find his goddaughter awake, seated in a high-chair and being patiently fed by his friend.

"Whatever you have been doing, I don't need to know." was Dr Watson's greeting.

"No, you most certainly don't! How is she today?"

"Her breathing has returned to normal and her blood oxygen level was at 97%, so she was taken off it, and if things continue at this rate, we can take her back home tomorrow."

"I have set up her crib, you know. Now, after I finish this delicate little case, I'm going to set about negotiating with Mrs. Hudson to let me have the area flat, so I can move all the chemicals and scientific equipment downstairs, and YOU can set about childproofing all cupboards and drawers and think up a secure place for your army pistol! I shall need help moving the fridge downstairs, as well, since it is better to order a brand-new one for the upstairs flat. I'm not sure any amount of decontamination would make our current fridge suitable for keeping baby food in."

"You are really determined that Mary's daughter should live with us?"

"If you are prepared to spend a sleepless night by her bedside, as is clearly evident from your whole demeanour, I'm prepared to house her in Baker Street until we find out what has happened to Mary at least. I do not take vows lightly, John!" Was there a slight hint of reproach in his voice?

Once again, as he had done last night, he bent down and brushed his lips lightly on her forehead. This time, she looked up at him, and her huge blue eyes, so much like Mary's, seemed to scan him. Then she gurgled and smiled.

"It seems to me, you do that as a protection against evil."

"I shall leave you to your own deductions, John. When Sir John calls in on her, text me." And with these words he left putative father and daughter to text Sebastian that he needed to see Lady Sanderson immediately. This time, there was no text back, but a call; fortunately, he had just exited the hospital, so he wouldn't be chastised for using his mobile inside it!

"Sebastian, I don't care what your current troubles are, I have to see Lady Sanderson this afternoon! Make it so!"

"But Lord Sanderson passed away early this morning, the household is preparing for his burial!" There was a definite squawk at the other end.

"I don't care if they prepare for his transfiguration. I need to see Lady Sanderson this afternoon. Oh, and before I forget, my fee this time will be fifty thousand pounds, directly credited to my account, checks are such a nuisance, as are you, but then, I have known that last detail for almost twenty years. Goodbye", he terminated the call.

About five minutes later he received a confirming text, setting up an appointment with Lady Sanderson in an hour. Smiling grimly to himself, he patted his inner jacket pocket, where both a pearl necklace and a stiff, red-ribbon secured document nestled safely.

Sherlock hailed a cab and set out back to Esher. With traffic, he arrived 5 minutes before his scheduled meeting time. He was quickly ushered to Lady Sanderson's morning room. "Your Ladyship, my condolences on the loss of your husband. Mr. Snooks the plumber has been apprehended and is in custody of the British Government. His brother Mr. Jebediah Snooks had a copy of a will your husband had written. Here is the information you need." Sherlock stated as he pulled the pearl necklace and will from his inner-jacket pocket. "Your husband's other solicitor a Mr. Aldershot also has a copy of a will. I do believe that they will say 2 different things. The will from Mr. Snooks disinherits you. The will from Mr. Aldershot leaves you as the sole beneficiary. Mr. Jeremiah Snooks was called in to do repairs on your husband's washbasin. The night of the break in, your husband took the pearl necklace and carefully put it in the drain of that washbasin. I was able to retrieve it the other night for safe keeping realizing what had been done with it. With the will in your hand, you prevented your further loss. You would have ended up penniless without these 2 items. Again my condolences. I must be off. Do give Sebastian my best. I suspect you will be happier with him."

Sherlock turned with a flourish and left without another word. He hailed a taxi and headed back to Great Ormond Children's hospital to look in on his goddaughter.


	22. Chapter 22

Once Sherlock arrived at the hospital, he found Sir John checking up on the baby with his stethoscope, while Dr. Watson stood by the baby's bed. The venerable paediatrician made small humming noises in between auscultations, and Sherlock could not but be impressed by how dexterously they were carried out so as to cause her the minimum discomfort. 

Finally, the old gentleman straightened and turned from one to the other, perhaps not quite sure whom to address. 

"It's all right, sir, I'm only the baby's godfather, Dr Watson is her father," Sherlock explained with a slight smile. 

"Very well, her condition is almost normal, I shall sign her discharge papers, but we shall have to wait for her blood tests and allergy ones to come through! Sherlock, I shall have my secretary inform you to come and pick them up!"

"Yes, sir, much obliged for all your efforts, sir!" was the almost automatic reply, which elicited an eyebrow raised in questioning mode by Dr Watson. 

After the distinguished octogenarian had left to go deal with the paperwork, a plainly intrigued Dr Watson turned towards his friend: "What was all that about?" 

Sherlock had agreed with John not to lie any more after the whole Magnussen debacle. "When you contract measles at age one and a half and you are firmly held down on your mother's lap, face down so the doctor can take your temperature using a baby thermometer several times a day, you quickly learn to respect a kindly touch with that thing going up your rectum and held firmly there for the requisite two minutes." he replied tersely, although he could see John crinkle his eyes at the mental image. 

"Anyway, Mycroft got measles too, because it was during school break, so the entire experience with running a temperature, photophobia and baths in chamomile water were worth it! Look at what I got for my goddaughter, he continued, aware that he had turned slightly pink in the face, as he pulled the pearl necklace out of his breast pocket. 

"What is that, and how did you come by it?"

"You said you didn't want to know!" Sherlock protested. 

"All right! We are getting the baby home and then you give me the whole story" huffed Dr Watson.  
Sherlock thought back on his actions and decided that half-truths were not lies, so he smiled slightly and agreed!

After having collected all the baby's things, Sherlock encountered the next obstacle in John's adamant decision to carry Sheralyn himself. "But I got the harness already adjusted to my measurements!" came his squawk of protest. 

"Not interested! First you redo them and then I carry the baby home!" 

"You know, John, sometimes you court peril needlessly! I know of enough ways to kill you and leave no trace for any forensic pathologist to find, not even our trusted Molly, that it is not even a consideration of how I would do it but when would be the most auspicious moment!" he huffed while struggling with the harness snaps. 

"You already did that once, figuratively, of course" muttered Dr Watson, but Sherlock caught the allusion, flushed and kept his mouth shut. 

Once he had fitted the harness around his friend, the time came to pick up Sheralyn and put her into the harness. After her ordeal, she seemed pale and uncooperative in that she squirmed in his hands, and finally it needed their combined effort to fit her in properly. Since the allergy tests would take some little time, the only thing she had been prescribed was an oxygen inhalant, much the same as for asthma sufferers. 

On their return to Baker Street, they found Mrs. Hudson in their flat, setting up table with an oven-proof dish of vegetable lasagna in the middle. Sherlock looked her up and down and simply said: "Anthea's replacement telephoned with instructions! For being not-our-housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, you are doing an admirable imitation of one!" 

"Yes, dear, your brother has made arrangements, strictly on a need-to-know basis, and I thought this way I could get you to eat some vegetables, at least. And someone had washed all the dishes, for once, so it was doubly pleasant carrying out instructions." 

"Well, I for one, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Once we have fed the baby and washed up, we shall make short work of such a delicious-smelling dish, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," replied John.

In a manner of speaking, after all, because Sherlock kept pushing his food around on the plate rather than actually putting it into his mouth. It had not escaped his notice how his friend showed every care and attention possible to the little girl, but had stopped calling her his daughter. 

On his side, Dr Watson knew from years of experience that one way to get his friend to eat was to distract him enough so that he would mechanically put food in his mouth, and he wanted to know as much as possible about the pearl necklace. 

Between mouthfuls, he asked: "So, Sherlock, how did the baby acquire a pearl necklace at the tender age of six months?"

"Ah, that! Well, it was very simple and very complicated at the same time. I got a rather nice fee out of it, Sebastian will be forever more in my debt, and the lady who used my services has no longer any use of this copy, and when I explained that we had a much more important case on our hands locating Mary, she gave me the necklace saying that pearls as a gift bring happiness only when they are passed from one woman to another. Of course, they are only Mallorca pearls, but still, I couldn't refuse on behalf of Sheralyn."

"And you aren't going to tell me how you did it?" 

"Absolutely, certainly, positively no, John, there's such a thing as being an accessory after the fact, after all, and getting handcuffed together once was enough for me, and I hope for you!" 

"OK!"

"OK?" echoed Sherlock. 

"The only thing I wanted you to do was eat the flipping food, and with this mission accomplished, I'm satisfied with your explanation."

He smiled impishly across the table from a flabbergasted consulting detective.

Sherlock got up from the table and flopped down on the sofa to think. Now it was time to turn his thoughts towards finding Mary. He quickly replayed the last several days through his mind. 

"John, we need to get back to your old flat. We still have not checked it out for clues. Here are Sheralyn's things." Sherlock handed over Sheralyn's car seat while simultaneously grabbing her diaper bag off the floor. He made a mental note to double check that Sheralyn was actually strapped in the car seat this time. He did not want a repeat of the day Mary disappeared if he could help it at all. "Now hurry up. I want to find Mary as quickly as possible."

Sherlock was off in a flurry once he had checked the car seat. John barely had time to collect his thoughts before grabbing Sheralyn in her car seat and following Sherlock down the stairs.

When they reached the Watsons' SUV, Sherlock himself secured the quiescent baby in its car seat to the proper restraints at the back, then took the keys out of John's unresisting clasp and got into the driver's seat. 

"Oi ! What do you think you're doing?" came the indignant query. 

"Making sure that we arrive at your suburban flat in all safety." The words 'you moron' and 'obviously' seemed to materialise behind Dr Watson's retina as if written on air. 

"What's wrong about my driving skills?"

"Nothing, except you have had your license for less than six months, and I would like to keep Sheralyn in her present mood as long as possible! Squalling infants in cars are more than not good. Right, then, climb on and off we go." 

With a sigh of resignation, Dr Watson took the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt, while Sherlock eased the lumbering vehicle out into London traffic as seamlessly as possible. Then, they were off to Acton at a sedate pace, which did not seem to bother the slumbering little girl at all. Sherlock had angled the inside rear view mirror to have a view of both Sheralyn and any vehicles directly behind them, something not directly obvious to Dr Watson from his line of sight. 

However, as with most things Sherlock set his mind to accomplish, it so happened that they reached John and Mary's flat without Sheralyn waking up.


	23. Chapter 23

Once Dr Watson had unbuckled her car seat and took it out of the vehicle, she seemed to realise that they had come home, yawned, opened her impossibly big blue eyes and smiled at them. Sherlock felt that his heart (nowadays he was forced to admit that he had one), skipped a beat! What if his best efforts didn't bring the little girl's mother back? He firmly shoved the thought into the dungeons of his mind palace and kept pace with Dr Watson. 

They went through the flat like a complete CSI team, quartering rooms and collecting data.   
It was just as John had said: Mary had left without taking anything away with her but for a small key, whose indentation Sherlock discovered in her vanity case. 

"John, apart from your joint account, which we know she has not touched, do you know of another banking establishment Mary may have a safety deposit box in?" 

"Not as far as I'm aware, but we both know that she's a woman of many parts and many identities, so your guess is probably better than mine." 

At that moment, Sheralyn made her presence known with a whimper which turned into a wail. Both men abandoned their search and rushed to her side. She held out her little hands, so Sherlock undid the straps of the car seat and scooped her in his arms. 

"John, fetch her bottle and her teething ring!" 

Dr Watson blessed his career in the Army when he automatically jumped to obey orders, because otherwise, his best friend's tone of voice would have earned him a right cross in this highly emotionally wrought moment. 

"Why do I let you order me about like this when we're not at a crime scene, God knows." he huffed but produced the required items. 

Sherlock cradled Sheralyn in his arms while he fed her, swept his friend up and down and replied: "But this IS a crime scene, John, do try to focus!", grabbed a tea-towel from the kitchen to cover his shoulder and burp her properly, then gave her the teething ring and put her back in the car seat, doing up the fastenings again. 

"Right, where were we? Ah, yes, Mary's multiple identities and multiple bank accounts. I shall take a cast of this impression and examine it later. The number indentation on it is not very clear, but if we're lucky, we can find which lock it fits. I think we're done here, John, so if you would like the chance to pack more of yours and the baby's stuff for an indefinite stay at your old digs, now' your chance." 

Dr Watson packed a suitcase for himself and one for his daughter, looked back wistfully at the primrose yellow nursery, closed the door behind him and trudged to the SUV. 

During this time, Sherlock had once more carried the car seat back, secured it and waited for Dr Watson to lock up the flat. He had a piece of evidence and was impatient to work on it, and he was so lost in thought about it that he didn't even offer to help Dr Watson with the heavy luggage to be deposited at the back of the vehicle. 

This time, Dr Watson lugged everything inside, closed the boot and took the keys from Sherlock's grasp.   
"You're not driving THIS time, mate, you're so lost in thought that you might cause an accident on the way back."

"Oh, yes, right" was the response he got. 

Back in the flat, Sherlock helped John settle the baby in her crib, watched as Dr Watson cleared the baby's nose with a vial of human serum, the way the baby girl sneezed and was helped to blow her nose before the medicine was administered, but then turned to his side of the table, took the cast of the key out of his pocket and proceeded to scan it into his laptop, where he deftly used the appropriate software to create a three-dimensional copy. The number simply read C 1081 and there was no other remarkable characteristic. He quickly printed out an image.

He sighed, "Well, it seems as if I need to go to the bank again! John, will you two be all right for a little while?"

"Course we will, we don't have much choice in the matter. Anyway, after all she has been through, I think she deserves some peace and quiet."

"I shall disregard your sly insinuation. Do we need anything for the flat and Sheralyn? I might pop into Waitrose's on my way back.

"Seeing as I haven't properly been in this flat for more than six hours in the last three days, how should I know? Look in the cupboards and make a list. There are those of us who like to eat regular meals and not subsist on tea and Mrs. Hudson's biscuits!"

"Now who is being snarky? All right, I'll do the shopping later, now I must dash before the banks close."  
A little later, Sherlock walked into the Baker Street branch of Barclays Bank and asked to speak to the manager.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes, how may I help you this time?"

Sherlock handed him Sebastian's cheque to be paid into his account and then produced the photocopy of the key.

"I would like to know what you make of this, Mr. Blake."

The manager inspected the image carefully, laid the paper flat on his desk and said: "It looks very much like a safe deposit box key, but of the old-fashioned variety, certainly not one of ours, and its cut reminds me of the ones used in Coutts, certainly the letter could be theirs, but then, it could also designate the row of safe deposit boxes, you know, like those in our older banking institutions. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, Mr. Holmes. Now, is there anything else I could help you with?"

"Direct the cashier to give me a thousand pounds in twenties, thank you for your time, Mr. Blake."  
Sherlock was out of the manager's office in a flash, and while he waited impatiently for the money to be counted out he resolved that he needed expert advice of another nature. Once he had the twenties in a thick wad held by an elastic band safely tucked inside his jacket pocket, he used his mobile to call Angelo.

"Angelo, listen... no, I need information about that erstwhile safe-knacker friend of yours. Where can I find him? Don't give me that, I know you see each other every Monday evening for a game of darts at that place in Islington. Right, thanks, we'll drop by one of these days."

Much as he would have liked to set off immediately in pursuit of the information he needed, he simply couldn't. John and the baby were in his flat, a flat devoid of practically any food for two men and a convalescent infant.

He sighed, pocketed his mobile and made his way to the supermarket. More information on the key would have to wait for the next day.


	24. Chapter 24

Sometime later, carrying six heavy carrier bags. (HOW could three people, one of them a baby, need so many things,) he wondered, he shifted their weight all to one hand while he fumbled for his keys, when he noticed the knocker; it had been straightened: Mycroft! Well, like all good things come in threes, he supposed all bad ones did as well. 

Having carried the heavy shopping up the flight of stairs, he found John opening the door of the flat for him: Your brother..."

"Is here, yes, that was pretty obvious!" 

As Dr. Watson took the carrier bags and started putting things away, Sherlock turned to his brother, who was, as always impeccably dressed in a summery cool wool light grey three-piece suit that had probably cost a month's rent on the flat. 

"Mycroft, what brings you here? Aren't you supposed to be convalescing from the effects of the tear gas, or something?" he wasn't exactly pleased, and it was reflected in his tone of voice.

"Thank you for your concern, dear brother, but unfortunately a matter has arisen where your services are needed, and in the interests of the Crown personal matters, like recovering from an abduction take second place." 

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, the last time you saw fit to involve me in your problems I very nearly ended up the scapegoat for messing up your elaborate schemes. No, thank you, I'm not interested, and anyway, John and I have to find out what has happened to Mary. I found this very interesting safety deposit box key impression..."

"Which belongs to a safety deposit box in the Coutts Bank central vaults, where Mary keeps an account under the name of Abbigail Grace Ramage, yes, that's all very interesting and mysterious, Sherlock, but service to the Crown should always be your first priority."

At this moment, a plainly flustered Dr. Watson poked his head out of the fridge, where he had been stocking the perishables and the baby's formula :"Mycroft, you knew all along! You knew about her and her past, and you said nothing?"

"Really, Dr. Watson, do you think that such an accomplished expert, like your wife, could have sailed under the radar? I felt it was not my place to tell you, because you chose her, and she has kept a very low profile these past six years that she has lived on British soil. She was kept under discreet surveillance, and she also permitted me to have a little fun at my brother's expense, seeing how blindsided he was and still is, I'm afraid, by your wife's behaviour and actions towards him. I mean, Sherlock, really, to be so blind as a bat in Magnussen's office that you very nearly lost your life! Not like you, not like you at all! Or do your observational skills desert you completely in her presence? Anyway, you may continue to investigate her disappearance, as long as you promise to make THIS case your first priority."

Sherlock let out an annoyed sound very like a snort. "That's all very well, Mycroft, but you haven't told us what this case is about!"

"What do you know about King George IV?"

"He was the last but one of the Hanoverians, he held both the throne of the United Kingdom and the Duchy of Hanover."

"It's good to see that you haven't deleted the royal succession from your 'hard drive'. The case could be considered one of your usual police court humdrum murders, but the implications are so far-reaching as to be colossal. In short..."

Mycroft was interrupted by a soft whimper from the baby's crib, and was surprised to see both his brother and Dr. Watson rush to the child. Dr. Watson picked little Sheralyn up and felt her all over. "Nappy change, I'll be just a minute, don't start anything without me!"

"Certainly not, John, where would I be without my blogger?", and there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he saw father and daughter disappear into the bathroom. 

"Now, then, Mycroft, this is as good an opportunity as any. Did Mary ever work for the British secret services?" 

It was definitely umbrella-twirling time, as Mycroft shifted uneasily in John's chair, but it being summer, he didn't have it with him. "The matter has been discussed but never acted upon." 

"That's practically an admission, coming from you. What else do you have?" 

"Strictly on a need-to-know basis, I am disinclined to think that you'll find her quickly. Make plans for an indefinite stay of your goddaughter in 221B, dear brother!"

At this moment, Dr. Watson emerged from the bathroom with a giggling, happily gurgling little blond girl with Mary's huge blue eyes that always seemed to melt something in Sherlock's chest, especially when she looked directly at him and reached out for him, as she did now. 

"John, get her milk ready, I shall hold her." 

No sooner said than done, he once again turned to his brother: "You were saying...?"

And as Sheralyn bounced in his lap and played with the lapels of his jacket, Sherlock first heard the story of the missing love letter of King George IV. 

"Ah yes, I do recall hearing something about a Mrs. Robinson some time ago. And it has nothing to do with that movie you were watching John." Sherlock replied knowing what John was about to say. "If I must look into it, I suppose I will. However, this little lady needs her mum sooner rather than later so any information you have on Mary would be most appreciated even if you're not technically supposed to give it out. Sheralyn has a right to know what happened to her mother. Even our mother would say so and you know how daft she can be."

"Here's the file with all of the pertinent information that you will need. Do keep in touch brother mine." Mycroft stood to leave placing the file folder on the small table next to John's chair. "Good day John, Sheralyn."

Still holding Sheralyn with one arm around her waist, Sherlock moved to the sofa in order to have more space, deposited the file on the coffee table in front of it and started leafing through its contents with his right hand, while the little baby girl snuggled close to his left shoulder. 

"Here, let me take her so you can work properly."

"No, John, you go to the desk and start making notes because this is of such very sensitive nature that I won't be able to create my usual crime wall. You had better change your password, as well, before we begin, choose a random alphanumeric one that has nothing to do with birthdays, anniversaries or other significant events in both our lives and then MEMORISE it." 

"All right, all right, don't get your knickers in a twist!" huffed Dr. Watson. 

"Stop being ridiculous John, you have had to do our laundry enough times to know that I wear boxer shorts."

"It's just a colloquialism, you literal-minded git." 

"Never mind your forays into cultural studies, John, have you created the new password so that we may proceed? Create a file under the name Jubilee Tea Room."

"Come again?" 

"Jubilee Tea Room, surely I'm enunciating clearly enough for you not to make me repeat myself. You know how I hate to do that!" 

"Yes, so do all the people at Scotland Yard. OK, password created, hold on while I recreate it visually in my mind to memorise it better."

"It was about time for you to start building your own Mind Palace, John."

"It's more of a mind cottage, but it'll serve. OK, why Jubilee Tea Room? Is it code for something?"

"Certainly, John. The Fortnum and Mason heiress is involved. If my facts are correct, in March 2012, the Queen and some other ladies of the Royal family visited the place on Piccadilly and officially opened the Jubilee Tea Room on the top floor. This Mrs. Robinson is the only daughter of that Canadian who bought the business in 1951, and if we can find the damnable letter, she may very well have a legitimate claim to the throne." 

"If you weren't holding my daughter right now, I swear we would have a repeat performance of what I did at the Landmark that evening you decided to surprise me, or punch you in the face and actually try to break your nose and teeth! You... You indescribable tease! Why did you pretend you didn't know anything about the Queen again and again?" 

"That would be incredibly ambitious of you, John. At the time I had barely recovered from my toils and tribulations all around the world, dismantling Moriarty's network, you caught me unawares, and I was feeling more than a little guilty at the way I had tried to spring the news to you. Now, you wouldn't stand much of a chance before I knocked you out. As for my leading you on about the King of England, it was not my fault you decided to get us drunk by mixing shots with beer and then having large whiskies back at the flat. Now, please focus on the salient points!" 

"Very well, please start." 

"And do remember to keep your voice down, I think my goddaughter is napping. So, the facts up to now: the whole thing started when a bibliophile and incunabula collector, Peter Leboc by name, found his friend and fellow bibliophile James Prowse dead in his little cottage on the outskirts of Balham. He was questioned by the local police incompetents, named three brothers who own a small refrigeration and air conditioning installation and repair shop in the neighbourhood as having passed by his friend's cottage not an hour before he himself rendered this friend a visit to talk about an important rare book sale the following week, which they both planned on attending, and found him dead, with a kitchen knife stuck very forcefully between the shoulder blades."

"That's not even a five in your scale, Sherlock, and what's an incunabulum when it's at home?" 

"It is a very rare, block- or typeset-printed book or pamphlet which was circulated before 1501. Really, John, your education seems rather one-sided."

"Well, I didn't have rich parents, didn't attend Cambridge, didn't dabble in all sciences and substances available to your sort. I attended medical school in London, became a qualified doctor and then went into the Army. Go on." 

Sherlock picked up a burp towel from the stack near Sheralyn's playpen, as she had definitely fallen asleep in his arms, and would start dribbling on his shoulder any minute now. With very careful movements, so as not to wake her, he positioned the towel over his shoulder, under her small head, started rubbing her back in soft circular motions and continued his story, as Dr. Watson typed furiously trying to keep up with the narrative. 

"It appears that one of those very rare books had, at one time, formed part of the collection of King George IV, and after the death of this Mr. Prowse, who was known to have bought it in a Manor House clearing sale, it was nowhere to be found, but Mrs. Elisabeth Robinson is particularly eager to have it found, because, according to family legend, her great- great- great...oh, I don't understand Mycroft's scribble here, Dorothy, was the lover and morganatic wife of King George IV after the death of his wife, Charlotte, in 1821. He is notorious for his affair with Mrs. Fitherbert, but she was dead by the time the beautiful Dorothy caught his eye and gave birth to a son a little while before his death in 1830. Mrs. Robinson is adamant that if this book can be found, the letter will also be found inside its binding, the love letter he wrote to acknowledge paternity and his legitimisation of this boy as his true heir, over princess Charlotte, the daughter he had with Charlotte, his first wife."

"Brilliant! Just brilliant! We not only have to care for a six-month baby, whose paternity has been called into question and whose mother is currently not to be found, we also have to chase up an incredibly rare book with an even more incredible content!"

"Not forgetting that we also have both Moriarty and Mycroft to circumvent in our search for Mary, John." Sherlock smiled and blew on his goddaughter's blonde down to wake her up just enough to take her to her crib.

Once the two men had made certain that the baby was sleeping peacefully, without showing any kind of distressed breathing or any other symptom, they resumed their favourite positions.

Dr. Watson lay in the depths of his comfortable overstuffed chair, while Sherlock removed his jacket, took off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves as it was a muggy evening, and sprawled on their sofa, properly melting in its depths. It had been one thing after another from the moment John had shown up with the baby outside the flat, and Mycroft's warning about a protracted stay of Sheralyn with them bode nothing good.

At least, with not-Jim kept in a secure facility, the threat to his parents lessened exponentially, so they would be able to return to their home, although he was certain that Mycroft would not permit them to leave the country: he could just picture his elder brother laying down the law in the form of an unassailable logical argument not even Mummy could pick holes in.

The very serious problem of the baby's paternity would have to be resolved by yet more tests that would also test John's limits: during a moment of crisis, he had stood by his daughter in name, but, in the long-term, would he accept her, especially if she proved to be carrying Moriarty genes? Sherlock knew that he had been forgiven for abandoning his friend in such a (necessarily) cruel manner, but would John extend the same forgiveness to Mary (when and if) they found her, and her infidelity? He, himself, was bound both by his given word and by a religious convention to protect the child, but it was John who would have to decide whether Sheralyn should continue to bear the Watson name if she was proven not to be his.

Sherlock had as one of his first priorities the meeting with Angelo's safe-cracking friend, as well as the explanation behind the safety deposit box. The latter would prove a major obstacle: it was under one of Mary's aliases, the bank would absolutely refuse to give anyone but her access to it except by court order, and to get a court order, he would have to do what he had been successfully avoiding for almost a year now: disclose to the police, the only authority in the country able to start a prosecution and thereby secure any kind of court order after a successful conviction, who it was who had shot him!

Lestrade might have a pretty good idea, but after the preliminary investigation had let the matter drop.

It was really an untenable position for him to be in! On the one hand he needed access to Mary's safety deposit box to find out any clues that might lead to her whereabouts, on the other, he couldn't do so except by exposing her as his attacker.

And right after he had managed to untangle the skeins of Lady Sanderson's complicated personal life (Sebastian had been accommodating, the fifty thousand pounds had been transferred to Sherlock's account at Barclays, he had checked when he had handed over Lady Sanderson's cheque to be processed), here came Mycroft with the fantastic story of a lost rare book and a long-lost royal love letter which had so many ramifications that Sherlock started feeling a headache coming on.

He couldn't help but chuckle to himself: how many times in the past years had he craved for something to keep his brain occupied, crying "Bored" and even shooting the wall, when now he was going into overdrive from the complexity of the situation?

He was startled out of his musings when he realised that John was looming over him.

"What is it, John?"

"I have already asked you if you wanted me to make some nice herb omelettes for dinner or order takeaway three times. Make up your mind in the next few seconds, because I'm starving!"

"Couldn't you see that I was thinking, John? An omelette would be fine, thank you."

"Oh, no, you don't. Get up off that couch and lend me a hand."

"Certainly not, after all I did all the shopping."

"And you expect a medal for that? I have been doing the shopping here from the moment we moved in together. Ups-a-daisy, you will lend a hand and after we're finished you'll help with the dishes, just to keep that mind of yours grounded for a bit." Dr. Watson heaved him out of the sofa.

"Well, at least I managed to accomplish the task without having a row with the chip and pin machine," grumbled Sherlock.

However, after a satisfying light dinner and having helped John with the washing up by drying everything and for once not dropping anything as his mind focused on a problem, Sherlock once again stretched out in the sofa and took up Mycroft's file. 

The details were rather interesting, despite the murder case barely registering as a six in his scale.

The principal witness, who had found the other bibliophile dead, Mr. Peter Leboc lived in a cottage close to the one of the victim, and often used to pass the time of day at his window overlooking the front garden and the road, which also led to his friend's house. He had seen the three brothers, Mark, Morris and Mike Goode, pass down that road towards the house of Mr. Prowse. 

The Coroner's court had heard the evidence of the three brothers, who had affirmed hearing raised voices from inside the little house, had jumped over the fence at what seemed to have been a cry for help, and had been not fifteen metres away from the house of Mr. Prowse when they had seen Mr. Leboc leaping from a side-window, or so they had thought. They had rushed into the house through that same window and had found Mr. Prowse dying, face down in his study, with a knife sticking in his back.

The problem lay in the fact that at about the same time, Mr. Leboc had been seen at his window, enjoying an afternoon pipe, as it had been a rather warm day, by the postman bringing the second class post of the day. 

Both men being well into their sixties and the distance between their two houses being almost a kilometre, it seemed a physical impossibility for Mr. Leboc to be in two places at almost the same time, especially since the road, inspected by the local police, showed no tracks of any kind of vehicle except their own and the bicycle tracks made by the postman.

On the other hand, a local lad who helped out in the air-conditioning installation firm, was adamant that his employers had left for the day at exactly the time they said, which placed them in front of Mr. Prowse's garden at the time they claimed, if they had been walking at a reasonable pace, something borne out by their tracks on the unpaved road running from the pub to the rather isolated houses of the two bibliophiles. 

However, the lad had stipulated that Mark and Mike Goode had left together, while Morris had added up the day's receipts and removed the paper money from the till, before catching up with his brothers. The problem with tracks, as usual, lay in the fact that their mere existence could not clarify when exactly they had been made. 

On top of that, there was another set of tracks, showing a pair of shoes in Mr. Leboc's size, with a peculiar four-nail pattern on the heels, but no such pair of shoes had been found in Mr. Leboc's house and the vicinity, despite an extensive police search having been carried out. 

During the reconstitution of the crime, Mr. Leboc had sat at his window, with his pipe and a book, and the postman had affirmed his first deposition. 

The affair had been concluded by the three brothers being bound over to await trial at the next local Assizes at Haywards Heath, but the problem of the lost book remained, and so did that of the letter.

And then John distinctly heard Sherlock's intake of breath, which he knew by past experience, meant a sudden realisation. 

"What is it, Sherlock, talk to me!" 

"The large home cinema appliance in Mr. Leboc's cottage, John, and the fact that when Mrs. Elizabeth Robinson approached Mr. Prowse for the first time, she noticed how all windows were open, to let in the cool air." 

"So?" John asked confused.

"Really?! It should be obvious." Sherlock huffed turning in John's direction.

"I've been through some trying moments that last 3 days. Give me a break and stopping being a git for a moment if you could." John retorted.

"If I must." Sherlock replied somewhat exasperated as he sat upright moving his head just so while rolling his eyes. "The lad at the shop left after Morris did. There's a narrow trail through the woods behind the houses. Easy enough to sneak through and a lot quicker than the main road if you know the route. He knew the basic layout of Mr. Prowse's house because he had helped work on Mr. Leboc's air conditioner unit shortly after his aunt had visited Mr. Prowse. The lad's name is Nathaniel Robinson Smith. His mother is Mrs. Elizabeth Robinson's sister-in-law. I daresay his feet would match the size of Mr. Leboc's feet. Now to find the book."

"That's all very well and good, but what does the home cinema have to do with the windows being open? It was a muggy day, after all. "

"You know, John, it's bad enough that you don't use your own brain at least once in a while, but trying to muddle up mine, too, is really not on! We are going to ask the local police for a reconstruction involving all participants, and then the truth will be revealed." 

"Very well, have it your own way! In the meantime, I'm going to get some much-needed sleep and I suggest you do the same."

"It would never do to disobey one's doctor's orders, I suppose. Let me text Lestrade so that the local police idiots are informed of the need to hold yet another reconstruction, and then I shall follow your advice."

No sooner said than done, and with an absolutely quiet baby for a change, the night passed uneventfully. Of course, Sheralyn would wake at seven in the morning, so the two "dads" had to as well. 

While a bleary-eyed Dr. Watson heated her morning bottle and took her to the bathroom with him for a much needed bath for her and a tepid shower for himself, Sherlock checked his messages and found that all had been set for a reconstruction of the drama that very afternoon. When Lestrade wanted things done double-quick, he could be a force to be reckoned with. He re-checked his notes, had a glance through Dr. Watson's file ( that alphanumeric code was rather easy, in his opinion), and sorted the data in his mind, so that they would be readily accessible.

And then the matter arose of what to do with Sheralyn. The problem was solved in pretty short order, when Mrs. Turner, next door, agreed to look after the baby for the duration of their visit to Balham, Mrs. Hudson not being up to the task because of her dodgy hip. The baby would give the two old ladies something to do other than gossip, knit and plan their bingo night.

The two friends caught the 12.03 direct train, and reached Balham station a quarter of an hour later.

Sherlock was gratified to see that the local DI had turned up himself for this latest twist in the tale. The man looked impossibly young, even by Dimmock's standards, and introduced himself as DI Hopkins. On Holmes's instructions, the DI would take Mr. Leboc out on the dirt road, ostensibly to check his footprints, while Holmes would get into that gentleman's house. The postman had been called in for another positive identification, and he was grumbling that he was losing half a day's pay. 

And so it came to pass, that while DI Hopkins was ostensibly double-checking the peculiar pattern left by Mr. Leboc's heels, the postman identified Mr. Leboc at the window of his house, pipe and all!

All hell broke loose, as Mr. Leboc crumbled right there, collapsed in DI Hopkins's arms, while the postman obviously thought he was having hallucinations! 

"I didn't think! I lost my mind over the amount of money such a book is worth to Mrs. Robinson...I hit him after he refused to share, he refused, I saw red, I grabbed a kitchen knife and as he was about to show me the door, I struck him from behind! He fell all in a heap. I had taken my precautions beforehand, I didn't want to be suspected immediately, I set up the screen of my home theatre so that it would reflect in the full-length mirror at the back of my study, so that an image of me would appear three-dimensional, I looked for the book, grabbed it and ran like the devil was chasing me when the three brothers happened on the scene of my crime! I'm an idiot to think I could keep things hidden forever!" 

"Certainly not from me, Mr. Leboc!" cried Holmes in his most forbidding, aloof manner. Then, he bent over the prostrate figure of the aged bibliophile: "What have you done with the book? Tell me, and I promise your sentence will be the minimum possible! Deal?"

"It is hidden inside my Stuttgart copy of Catullus, it is a very thin incunabulum on the interpretation of St John's Apocalypse, printed in 1495 in Heidelberg." 

A little while later, the precious pamphlet was securely in the hands of Holmes, who palmed it like a set of aces up his sleeve, a remarkable feat given the natty cut of his tailored jacket, but DI Hopkins seemed not to notice. 

On their return trip, a clearly mystified Dr. Watson had some questions to clarify: "So, this Leboc knew of the letter hidden in that thing?"

"Obviously, John, when DI Hopkins inspects Mr. Leboc's wallet, he will find a card with Mrs. Elizabeth Robinson's name and address bearing that telltale four-nail indentation on it, which will conclusively prove that Mr. Leboc visited his friend during the lady's first attempt to recover the volume herself, saw the card drop to the floor, stepped on it to hide it from view, possibly pretended to drop on one knee to tie a loose shoelace, palmed the card and then set up his little impromptu hologram scheme to create an alibi for himself. Luck played into his hands, when the three brothers heard the victim's cry for help and saw him leaving the scene of a crime he couldn't possibly have committed, as a completely impartial witness was prepared to swear. Now, it only remains for us to hand the flipping thing over to Mycroft and wash our hands of the whole affair, the better to concentrate on Mary's disappearance and the baby's paternity."

"You know, on that last count, I have thought long and hard about it, especially during her stay in hospital, and I'm not sure if I can handle a Morstan/Not-Moriarty affair. Let's drop the matter for the time being, if it's all the same to you!"

"Your wish is my command, John."

"Oh, don't be such a pompous git!"

The two friends lapsed into companionable silence, which lasted all the way back to the flat.


	25. Chapter 25

Once they reached Baker Street their first action was to retrieve Sheralyn, and John was actually surprised to hear his friend thank Mrs. Turner for her help in looking after the baby. 

And it was Sherlock's turn to be surprised, when, having reached to take the baby girl out of her makeshift playpen, he was forestalled by Dr. Watson, who picked her up and carried her upstairs to their own flat. 

Seeing as his friend started for the bathroom, obviously nappy-changing time, he shed his jacket in his bedroom and then called out: "I shall make tea, then!"

"No sugar for me, thanks," came the muffled reply. 

If Sherlock were in the habit of rolling his eyes, now would have been a good moment! That had been one of his minor deductions when they had first met, but apparently the good doctor would never let him forget the incident at Baskerville!

When Dr. Watson emerged from the bathroom, he had changed into casual clothes as well as the baby's outfit. He put her down in her own playpen next to the living room desk and gratefully accepted the mug his friend held out to him. 

This gave Sherlock time to use the bathroom himself, whence he emerged to flop back down on the couch and reach for his own mug (milk, two sugars) which he had conveniently left on the coffee table. He inserted the valuable pamphlet in the file Mycroft had given them and was preparing to launch into a detailed description of their latest case, seeing as Dr. Watson had wandered over to *his* laptop, when the latter broke into his train of thought:  
"Sherlock, what about Mrs. Robinson's nephew? Why should a lad from an extremely privileged background seek work as an assistant in a lowly firm such as that?"

"Really, John, you should spend fewer Saturday afternoons watching football and guzzling cheap ale in the company of Lestrade and Dimmock, their combined observational skills, by which I mean lack thereof, are beginning to rub off on you!"

"And what's a bloke to do when his autocratic idiot of a flat mate cannot abide football because he cannot be bothered to learn the rules while he can follow the finer points of a cricket match just fine?" 

"Cricket was obligatory at school, and I have always thought it's not sporting to hit a sitting ball. But I digress. Mr. Robinson Smith had become aware of his aunt's interest in the book and it's even more valuable contents by surreptitiously reading her correspondence with the late Mr. Prowse, so he thought it would be an excellent plan to appropriate it for himself and then press his aunt for some form of monetary reward to fuel his habit of betting heavily at horse races as well as dog races. He just about breaks even, but a nice lump sum from his aunt might have gone much further." 

"And you deduced all that over the reconstruction? That's amazing, Sherlock!"

"I am sorry to burst the bubble of your admiration, John, but I simply told him I knew about his gambling, which I deduced from the various betting slips in his pockets, and he then told me everything as we were setting up the home cinema equipment. Now, let's prepare Sheralyn's bottle for the evening and decide on our own meal. What would you like?"

"Indian, I think, order that red curry of theirs with the duck slices in it. Are you eating?"

“Not in the mood."

"Right, then order a double portion of rice, because you always steal from my plate when you think I'm not looking!"

"I practically never do that! How dare you suggest such a thing?"

"You practically always do. Order a double portion of rice!"

With an exaggerated sound between a snort and a huff, Sherlock picked up the phone to place the order.

True to form Sherlock snuck bits of food off John's plate while feeding Sheralyn. He perused the new file folder that had been sitting on the table just under the Robinson case. Mycroft had conveniently dropped it off while the guys were out.

"What's that?"

"What do you think it is John? Do try to observe as it's obviously nothing to do with the case we just solved. That would leave only one other option." Sherlock huffed.

"Mary, then. What information is in there?"

"Here, look at this one while I go through the rest. As I finish a sheet, I'll pass it over. It'll just be easier."

British Secret Services  
Project: Foxtrot Moonglow 105  
Priority: Crucial  


> RE: Operative Abbigail Grace Ramage Aarons (AKA Abbigail Grace Ramage, Abbigail Grace Renee Anderson, Amanda Gwen Renee Andersdatter, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, Mary Elizabeth Watson)
> 
>  
> 
> Date: 23 July, 2014
> 
>  
> 
> Ms. Aarons is likely to be on the move soon. Date as yet to be determined. Keep eye on previous contacts. May be in contact with Moriarty twin. Checking into actual paternity of daughter code name: Little Lamb. Keep Red Beard & Three Continents out of loop until approved by Brolly.
> 
>  
> 
> ~ M. Holmes

 

John read the first sheet Sherlock handed to him and grimaced. Seeing all of Mary's aliases just about put him into an information overload. Each sheet that Sherlock handed him gave more of the same information on keeping tabs on her. He found out that she had lived in Scandinavia and northern Canada previously but had originated from the US. She was actually 5 years younger than her looks suggested making her 35 instead of 40. Most of that did not surprise either man.

Sherlock perused 2 more sheets before laying a sleeping Sheralyn in her crib. He went back to the kitchen and grabbed the final sheet from the file. He quickly scanned it than stopped with his tea cup mid way to his mouth. He had found some very interesting information.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, what's come over you!" cried a plainly concerned Dr. Watson. 

"Apart from the fact that my esteemed brother didn't want us to have all this information in the first place, apart from the ridiculously offensive operative aliases he has given us, he has also handed me a "break into Coutts" central vault card in this last document! I shall probably shut down from sensory overload in a few moments! Mind Palace or not, this is huge!" 

"Well, you have always said that your mind is your hard drive! Can't you do a defrag or some such cleaning up operation before you get all unresponsive and well-nigh catatonic on me? When there were just the two of us, I could have dealt with such a state more efficiently, now, with Sheralyn to take care of, I would probably need Mycroft, who gave you the file in the first place, to invoke serious mental disability on your part and have you evaluated by two psychiatrists to put you away for treatment!"  
With a bound, Sherlock moved from his horizontal place on the couch to loom over the plainly alarmed Dr. Watson at his place in front of the computer.

"Nobody gets to section me, ever! Anyway, I have developed a whole sub-routine to fool psychiatrists because they have been a part of my life from fifteen onwards. Don't use empty threats, John, we should work all together on this, not fight each other. Mary's baby is a very innocent pawn that must be preserved until checkmate is reached, or even better, until final victory. But I do need some time to process the data."

"All right, how do you propose to get hold of Mary's safe deposit box information, because I am telling you right now, I shan't turn bank robber."

Sherlock actually smiled at that, and John was glad to see that the smile actually reached his friend's eyes, a very rare occurrence in the aftermath of his having been shot by Mary. 

"The central vaults at Coutts are located underground, John. We would need to dig like moles, bypass their electronic alarm system and then negotiate their complicated laser security beams before we even reached Mary's deposit box. No, Mycroft, as usual, has come up with a much more elegant plan, bless his devious mind! We borrow one of his operatives that bears a close resemblance to Mary, use a 3D printer to recreate Mary's fingerprint data, which she had to provide for the Registered Nurses' Union, and then print them out on cling-skin to cover the operative's actual fingerprints, school her to imitate Mary's signature on the electronic pad they are using, and then, once we're downstairs in the vault, the only obstacle will be to figure out Mary's pass code. THAT is why I need some time to regroup my thoughts. Will you be able to cope with Sheralyn during my downtime, or should we take her to my parents'?"

"Couldn't we just ask Mrs. Hudson and her friend Mrs. Turner next door to look after Sheralyn? She seems to have recovered fully." 

"*mumble mumble mumble* Of course not, John, the two little old ladies are there for some light babysitting, not some industrial-strength baby care."

"I take it, you were telling me what an idiot I am, there. OK, I shall look after her myself, and ask for Mrs. Hudson's help only when I go to work. How much time do you plan on defragmenting that ridiculously vast mental construct anyway?"

"Approximately thirty-six hours, why?" 

"Because I shall need to keep you hydrated, and that will mean regular breaks in your routine, with regular visits to the loo, however inconvenient you may find them. Or would you prefer a Foley catheter?"

"Regular breaks are acceptable. Every two or three hours, in your opinion, doctor?" the imperious tone was back again. 

"Sherlock, your sarcasm has stopped working on me ever since your return from the dead. Three hours it is. Tea and isotonic drinks it is then!" 

"What! The ones which look like window-cleaning liquid and taste like cat-piss?"

"How would you know what cat-piss tastes like?"

"I tried it as an experiment once, while I was holed up in Molly's flat, with her cat's excretion, right after..." and his voice trailed off. 

"I have forgiven you for pulling that stunt and keeping me in the dark, Sherlock, it's all water under the bridge. Isotonic drinks or the deal is off."

With an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders, Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom. 

Dr. Watson sighed, got up to check on the napping baby and was startled to hear a knock at the door. When he opened it, he found Mrs. Hudson hovering in a decidedly unhappy manner outside, almost like the time she had had to usher in the late, unlamented Magnussen.

"Oh, John, a gentleman has come to see you. Has Sherlock put the bell in the fridge again? It kept ringing and I thought it best ..." She handed him the visitor's card, and Dr. Watson immediately tensed. This was an unforeseen complication, not only because he had no idea what this visitor could want, but also because he could imagine Sherlock's response to him: it could get ugly!

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson, please show the gentleman in. If I need you to take care of Sheralyn for about two hours, will you be at home?"

"Oh, the poor motherless bairn, of course, John, just leave her with me and whatever she will need for the duration. I don't have anything planned for today, except watch telly, so she may provide some welcome distraction."

With these words, she went downstairs, to show their visitor in.

"Major, always a pleasure to see you! What brings you to Baker Street ?"

"Hello, Watson, I mean, John... Heard about your present difficulty and thought you could use a helping hand. May I?"

"Yes, of course, please excuse my temporary lapse in manners; do sit down, Major Sholto."

No one could accuse Sherlock of lacking acuity in all five senses, while Lestrade and the poor long-suffering Dr. Watson could swear to his having a sixth sense as well. Hardly had John's old commanding officer sat down in John's overstuffed chair (Sherlock's technically, but who was quibbling at a moment like this), when the bedroom door opened to reveal Sherlock , dressed once again in his customary dark trousers and a pale almond-green shirt.

Like a Jack-in-the-box, thought Dr. Watson, but prudently kept his thoughts to himself. He didn't want to start a brush fire this early on!

"To what do we owe the pleasure, Major?" every single word enunciated clearly and the last two heavily dipped in sarcasm.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, beware the green-eyed monster! I was reliably informed that you two have got way over your heads in this affair concerning Moriarty's re-appearance, plus Mrs. Watson's disappearance, and a tidbit of news has come my way through the old grapevine, so I came to share it with you and offer my help."

"Naturally, we would be glad of any news, as well as any help you would be willing to offer, sir."

"Stop it, Watson... John, we are in civvy street now. I came to offer my help in looking after the baby, while you two go about finding her mother's whereabouts and negating the Moriarty threat once and for all. As for the information, it seems that that Special Forces Colonel, who was dishonourably discharged for torturing captives to elicit information, is involved in the Moriarty conundrum. So, what do you say, Mr. Holmes, you know that I live absolutely secluded, with adequate security to keep me alive at home, to the point that one of my enemies had to engineer a whole plot to try to kill me at John's wedding, I have both a trained nurse and a very good cook to be able to look after John's daughter, while you two go ahead with your puzzle-solving."

"That is extremely generous of you, sir, but are you trying to say that Colonel Sebastian Moran forms part of Moriarty's network, the one Sherlock took two years to dismantle?"

"Well, John, apparently the colonel has started to build it up again. Baron Maupertuis, that renegade Frenchman running all those operations out of Serbia, was one of Moran's most trusted operatives."

"Very well, Major, with John's approval, I think you're the best possible guardian of my god daughter until such time as we deem it necessary to bring her back to Baker Street. I expect you came in an unmarked car with your usual bodyguard. We shall have the baby ready for you shortly. In the meantime, would you care for some tea? John has recommended a hydration schedule for me, which I mean to keep, so why not enjoy some fine Darjeeling in the meantime?"

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I would like some."

"John, will you see to it?" an angelic blue-green look straight into Dr. Watson's eyes, and the latter jumped to obey with alacrity. Now he could understand what Sherlock had let slip about his 'previous commander' being Major Sholto!

Within the hour everything was packed for Sheralyn to stay with Major Sholto for several weeks if necessary. She was secured in her car seat and everyone headed down to Major Sholto's car. They opened the front door and were surprised by what appeared to be elite military personnel. Sherlock reacted instinctively and swung the portable crib he was carrying around taking out a couple of the men. 

Major Sholto stepped out the front door and immediately all of the military personnel stopped and stood at attention. Sherlock stopped as well and quickly did a scan of Major Sholto. He could tell that the men had heard of Sholto but were not there at his request. He then scanned the area and noticed a black brolly at a table outside Speedy's and a lady sitting there that was obviously Anthea's fill in. "Hello Mr. Holmes. Your brother will be out in a minute. He's having a word with Mr. Chatterjee."

As if on cue, Mycroft stepped out of the cafe. "Sorry for the surprise brother mine, but needs must. Of course I know about Major Sholto's offer. And naturally I agree whole-heartedly. Christopher and Michael are likely to have nasty headaches it looks like. Judging by the state of the crib, I'm assuming you did it. Not surprised after the last incident a few days ago. Here, don't open until you've cleared London. Too many prying eyes. Now don't cross my men, brother mine. It could be a bit dangerous." Mycroft had a certain look that Sherlock knew was for anyone that could be overhearing and not directed at Sherlock in any way.

"I wouldn't dream of it brother dear. I wouldn't want to interfere with mum's and dad's line dancing. We know what a fiasco that was the last time." Sherlock said with a huff while his eyes twinkled slightly in understanding. "Do give my apologies to the 2 men. Off we must be for safety's sake. Good day." Sherlock replied quietly before turning around with a flourish.

"We're good to go. They are the good guys at least today." Sherlock hurried to the car to get it loaded. John quickly followed suit. Soon they were heading out of London for their hopefully not much longer than 4 hour trip to Sholto's place just outside of Settle. It was fairly remote by some natural park and natural beauty areas, easily enough hidden among the trees.

The trip was uneventful. About an hour after they clear London's traffic, Sherlock opened the envelope Mycroft handed him. He looked over each sheet and passed it on to John. After a few minutes, John let out a slow, low whistle. "Major Sholto, I need to ask you a favor of your grapevine. However, the information I need is of such a sensitive nature, that they cannot be asked of it directly. First, how did you find out about Colonel Moran in your grapevine? Second would you be able to keep tabs on him via the grapevine and would you have a way of finding any information on an Abbigail Aarons without them knowing you were seeking the information?"

Sherlock was getting quite concerned by the sheer volume of information and paperwork. He made a mental note to himself that once they had installed Sheralyn properly in Major Sholto's eyerie, he would return home and burn all this highly sensitive material in their grate. Mrs. Hudson might be a bit surprised to notice a fire going in the middle of the summer, but their flat had never served as an adjunct to his brother's nefarious activities, nor as a branch of MI6. Above all, he wanted to keep his god daughter as safe as possible and then deal with the problems arising from the disappearance of Mary ( she would always be Mary to him, no matter what her real name turned out to be. He also desperately needed to de-clutter his brain, which, he now estimated, was running about 70 per cent of its capacity, surely an all-time low, even including his dabbling in drugs!

Next to him, Major Sholto fidgeted as he straightened the crease in his trousers. 

"Watson...John, my sources are available to you, too, if you cared to bother. Ex-colonel Moran was seen in the company of she who calls herself your wife, and as to how he became involved with Colonel Moriarty's gang, surely, that is no stretch of the imagination. Two ex-army never'do'wells becoming best buddies...it's been known to happen."

Sherlock jerked out of his reverie, since all trips where he wasn't himself the driver tended to overload his sensory input with too much information, simply by gazing out of the vehicle's windows:  
"Major, could you explain your last remark? John may know all about Army old boys' networks, but I need more data, if you would be so kind."

Dr. Watson, seated in the co-driver's seat, nearly caused himself a whiplash injury, so quickly did he turn his head in order not to miss anything of this exchange, surprised to hear Sherlock use such language to his former commanding officer. 

"Mr. Holmes, I owe you and that woman my life, so I should tell you that not all of us are privileged to have had private means, like myself, so, like John, cannot afford to survive on their Army pension and thus seek alternative employment."

"You mean mercenaries, Major, guns for hire. Is that what Sebastian Moran had become? Why? His cousin was a life peer, the late Lord Moran, who died in prison a few days before his preliminary hearing. He comes from a good and even rich family, considering all the riches his cousin must have amassed working for North Korea for almost twenty years?" 

"I cannot give you a satisfactory answer, Mr. Holmes. Whoever has seen battle, can never really settle down to what people are pleased to call 'normal life'. Even John here..."

"Yes, thank you, Major, I know most of John's issues emanating from his stint in Afghanistan. My point is, how exactly did you find out about the Colonel and his dubious activities."

By the time Major Sholto had finished explaining his connections to old Army buddies and even the pubs and clubs they preferred, the journey was over, and they had arrived at their destination. Time to get Sheralyn settled and then return to London, where the problems of the safe deposit box and of Mary's current location remained as acute as the first day Dr. Watson had stepped onto the pavement outside 221b with Sheralyn in her car seat.

"Tessa, John has some medical stuff to explain to you while Sheralyn is in our care. You will be her primary caregiver apart from me while she's here." Major Sholto stated. He then turned to Sherlock so they could go over the security detail with Robyn.

About 30 minutes later Sherlock and John were in the private car heading back to London. Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his hands under his chin beginning to sort through all of the information he had been gathering on Mary. 3 hours into the trip, Sherlock's eye popped open and his face looked liked he had just gasped even though no sound was made. He quickly went back to a sheet that was in the envelope Mycroft gave him today.

 

British Secret Services  
Project: Foxtrot Moonglow 105  
Priority: Crucial  


> RE: Operative Abbigail Grace Ramage Aarons (AKA Abbigail Grace Ramage, Abbigail Grace Renee Anderson, Amanda Gwen Renee Andersdatter, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, Mary Elizabeth Watson)
> 
> Date: 31 July, 2014
> 
> Ms. Aarons was seen with Lizard and Scorpion at approximately 18:00 on 30 July, 2014 heading towards Xixerella, Andorra from Tor, España in the Pyrenees. She had contact with the Eagles' Nest about 12 hours before meeting Lizard and Scorpion. Paternity test has been requested and results should be coming back by 3 August, 2014 after results have been double and triple checked for accuracy. We have samples from Chameleon, Lizard, Scorpion and Three Continents. Chameleon and Lizard are being tested to see how identical they are before the rest of the testing is completed.
> 
> Lizard and Scorpion are known ex-military. Trained in special-ops, sniper, and explosives. Ties to the New Provo Front, Liberte de Quebec, the Asian Dawn movement, and Barry "Bezza" Berwick.
> 
> All wires go to Brolly, Code English Breakfast.
> 
> ~M. Holmes

Sherlock realized he recognized Bezza. He was the potential client in Belarus, the open and shut domestic shortly before he met James Moriarty the first time. He was a butcher's son. He was from the same part of England as Moran. They must have known each other growing up even if it was only business instead of close friends. Mycroft would not have included Bezza unless it was important. He also had questions about the Moriarty twin as he knew that code name Lizard was supposed to be in a secure facility.

As far as Sherlock could see, his dear brother had already gone behind everyone's back to collate information pertaining to Mary, hence Mycroft's warning that they should expect the baby to stay longer than expected at Baker Street. If the report was accurate, and that was a very big 'if' , knowing as he did that Mycroft's sources and foreign networks were rife with double or even triple agents, which was how he, himself, had ended up being caught in Serbia in the first place, he knew that the whole matter needed extremely in-depth analysis. 

Not having the distraction of the baby at home was both a blessing and a curse; he could concentrate on analysing the intel included in Mycroft's file, but he also had an open appointment with Angelo's safe-cracking friend which had to be met, he needed to set up the whole Coutts bank infiltration ploy so that he could get a look into Mary's safe deposit box, and he desperately, absolutely needed to sequester himself and do a serious re-arrangement of his Mind Palace before it imploded under the sheer volume of new information! 

Suddenly, he was jolted out of his reverie by Dr. Watson placing a hand on his thigh and squeezing: "What is it, John?"

"I trust Major Sholto to do his best for Sheralyn, but do you?"

"It is hardly a matter on which you could expect an unqualified affirmative. He has his past to haunt him, he has his more than dubious ex-military associations, and above all, he's surrounded by female staff. To be perfectly frank, Mycroft should set up a perimeter guard before anything untoward happens."

"I told you that he receives more death threats than you, but what could possibly go wrong?"

"Really, John, you are putting me in an untenable position, much like my dear brother. I do not play guessing games, and at the moment I have insufficient data. Once we reach home, I intend to soak in a bath and then retire to my room to do some serious thinking."

"You mean, spring-clean your Mind Palace! It's all fine, we have discussed that, but if Mary and Colonel Moran were seen in Andorra, she is still within the British government's grasp."

"And you base all your hopes and fears on one unconfirmed sighting. We don't know the identity of the agent, his level of experience, his age, or even where his loyalties really lie."

"So you think that it may be completely worthless."

"Don't put words in my mouth, John, I simply observed that the same person has compiled both reports, so I shall need to ask Mycroft to give me more details on both the agent doing the field work and the office analyst, although I could possibly see the latter person for myself and observe them, given my clearance." 

"So why do you suddenly look as if you have bitten on a sour lemon?"

"Because, John, if Mycroft doesn't want something revealed, then it is not revealed. In my present state of mind, he could tie me up in knots with clear, incisive, pure logic." 

"All right, then, we need to make sure that your re-booting of your hard drive is accomplished successfully, then go to quiz Mycroft, and if all else fails, we shall appeal to your mother. She rather took to Sheralyn from the moment my daughter was born."

"How can Mummy help, especially since Mycroft has not recalled my parents from the Edinburgh safe house?" Sherlock was more than a little bit intrigued by that personal pronoun in Dr. Watson's last sentence, but they were already in London, the attraction of home loomed large on his mind, and he let the matter alone. 

"First things first, we get home, you relax and 'think things through', then we tackle Mycroft, and if all else fails, we take the train to Edinburgh."

"We could take the car..."

"No, we really couldn't! It's at least a half day's drive to reach Edinburgh, and as you seem to have deleted the fourth and fifth gears from your hard drive, so that the engine revs appallingly on the motorway, and I'm new at this, so I can't spell you, I shall start looking up train times for about three days from now."

It was a measure of Sherlock's muddled thoughts that he allowed Dr. Watson to have the last word on the subject. 

After the chauffeur-driven car had deposited the two friends outside the flat, Sherlock opened the outer door with his keys, set the knocker askew and went upstairs. John was the one to have to deal with Mrs. Hudson, who came out of her flat with a plateful of ginger biscuits, patted him affectionately on the shoulder and handed the plate to him. 

"Thanks for your thoughtfulness Mrs. Hudson, but I don't think Sherlock will be doing much eating in the foreseeable future. He has set his whole will towards re-arranging his Mind Palace, you see."

"If he intends to spring-clean his brain. I wouldn't mind being given a chance to do some real cleaning upstairs. That young man has absolutely no sense of order outside that great brain of his."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I apologise for the state of the living room!" came that particularly sharp-eared man's voice from above them. 

John gave her an apologetic grin, as well, balanced the plate on one hand and started climbing the stairs to the flat. Blessedly, Sherlock had left the door unlocked. John could just see him as he disappeared into his bedroom. With most of Sheralyn's things gone, the place seemed unbearably empty to John, despite containing the usual Sherlockian clutter minus the experimental stuff, which had all been removed in the interests of the baby's safety. John noticed that Sherlock had turned both the hot water boiler and the bathroom heater on despite its being summer. He practically ran to the toilet, afterwards washed his hands, splashed some water on his face and managed to get out just before Sherlock appeared from his bedroom practically naked except for a pair of boxer shorts, carrying one of his gowns, what appeared a set of pyjamas and a loofa sponge. It was going to be an hour-long soak at least, since in his other hand he carried his headphones and his iPod. 

"So, what's it tonight? Paganini, Mozart, Rossini?"

"Wagner, Tristan und Isolde, I need to re-focus my thoughts."

"Right, then I shall put the kettle on in about three-quarters of an hour, and if your fingertips have not pruned by then, you can have some of Mrs. Hudson's Ginger biscuits to go with yours."

"Perfectly acceptable, thank you, John. If you could find the organic honey to go with them, that would be a good start to my meditation sequences," and he closed the bathroom door behind him.

Dr. Watson fiddled around in his blog, tweaking a phrase here, adding an interesting detail there, until it was time to put on the kettle. No tea bags this time: biscuits steeped in honey meant loose-leaf Darjeeling tea, so he took the tin from the shelf, found a strainer and set to boil the water to make a perfectly aromatic infusion. 

Just as the kettle stopped whistling, Sherlock came out of the bathroom in a set of pale blue Egyptian cotton Derek Rose pyjamas and his favourite blue silk dressing gown, the pocket of which he had shot through that time so long ago when he had shot at the wall. He reached John's side just as the tea had steeped for five minutes. He helped himself to a mugful, adding his customary two lumps of sugar, then carried the honey jar and the biscuits over to the coffee table. He plumped up a cushion, set it against one of the sofa armrests, sighed contentedly and sprawled down on it. 

Dr. Watson swiped a handful of biscuits before Sherlock set the whole plate on his stomach and opened the honey jar, then went to sit at his laptop with his own mug of tea, his favourite, the one he had had since his Army days. 

"So, what now?" he asked. 

Between munching on biscuits and sipping at his tea, Sherlock explained that he would use meditation techniques to access his inner self and therefore defragment his Mind Palace, especially some intricate Tibetan practices he had picked up during his two-year absence.

"And apart from the fact that I shall need to bring you out of them without you harming me or me harming you, for basic necessities, like hydrating and using the loo, how am I to know that you have not actually gone catatonic on me?"

"Well, really, John, we shall set up a time schedule. Create an excel page, set up the times you want for all the basic necessities and then show it to me: eidetic memory, remember?"

So Dr. Watson set up specific times for taking liquids, approximated their discharge to the best of his ability, and then brought the laptop to the reclining detective. 

Sherlock held up his sticky hands, so John removed and capped the honey jar and placed the computer on the consulting detective's lap. Sherlock took a good look, even squinted at the screen a little, and then nodded his thanks and his agreement. After Dr. Watson saved the page, Sherlock got up to wash his hands in the sink, then returned to the sofa and seemed to fall into a trance, eyes open.

The next three days passed in a lull.

Dr. Watson went back to the surgery every morning, after having taken Sherlock out of his meditation techniques, made breakfast for both and made sure that Mrs. Hudson would look in on Sherlock at midday. He came back in the evening, checked that the schedule was being followed, cooked a light dinner for himself and Sherlock, and then retired to the overstuffed chair with the evening paper and the latest Stieg Larsson novel. He quite liked the methodical Danish police officer, so different from his madly intuitive flat mate, and this was a rare opportunity to indulge in some peace and quiet, a luxury he had missed for longer than he could remember, probably before being posted overseas.

What with Hurricane/Tornado Sherlock tearing up everything in his path, his two-year long grieving, Mary's ultimately duplicitous nature and her latest escapade, leaving him literally holding the baby, he had not had many quiet moments to savour.

On the evening of the third day, Sherlock seemingly came out of his self-imposed isolation without help, announced his intention of taking a bath and told Dr. Watson to order Japanese takeaway.

An hour later, the two mates were enjoying freshly-made sushi and teriyaki sauce, and the ordinarily abstemious detective even proposed a goat in the complimentary sake :"Confusion to our enemies!" Dr. Watson gaped a moment and then clinked his cup to that of his friend's: "And here was Mycroft trying to convince me that you wanted to be a pirate: you wanted to be the Lord High Admiral, or First Lord, or something like that! It's such a Royal Navy toast!"

"John, I'm really not responsible for my brother's misconceptions. Now, I have managed to delete several hundred of our most mundane cases, reconfigured my archive of criminals and their connections with the outside world, updated the whole Moriarty file so that it lies at my fingertips, I stumbled on a bit of evidence concerning ex-Colonel Moran so that I can coherently examine your precious Major Sholto, I've created a whole new subroutine of Mary as a fugitive from justice, deleted whole chunks of Mycroftian nonsense, and am therefore at your service and that of my god-daughter."

"Well, I don't have anything significant to report, except that we may not have to go to Edinburgh, after all, because Mycroft has re-evaluated the situation and thinks that your parents can be brought safely back."

"That's really good news, especially when you consider how he must have his hands full with the present Middle Eastern crisis. At any rate, taking the train to Edinburgh reminds me of that old black and white film you made me watch once"

"Speaking of which, the new Game of Thrones series is starting tonight, as it so happens. Care to join me in watching it?"

"Sometimes, John, you make me think that I may have been the dragon Fafnir in another life. All right, you put up with my quirks for three days, I can grant you an hour's puerile enjoyment. Let's watch it, by all means."

Heaving a sigh, Dr. Watson moved the dirty dishes and cutlery to the sink, when, to his great amazement, Sherlock followed him: "It's only logical, you wash, I dry, we get to watch from the beginning."

Dr. Watson would not look a gift horse in the mouth.

An hour later, as the end credits started rolling, his mobile went off.

"Packages en route. ETA 6.5 hrs. Do be gracious. -MH"

"John, expect company early in the morning. Somewhere around 04:30. The 'ordinaries' are arriving and will be with us a couple of days before they are sent on their way again." With that limited explanation, Sherlock went to his room, grabbed his favorite pillow, and returned back to the sofa. Then he went to the linen closet and grabbed what he needed for his parents' arrival. John watched his flatmate at work initially confused until he saw Sherlock with the 2nd pillow. Then he made the connection on who Sherlock was referring to remembering back nearly 2 years ago when he first saw Mummy & Daddy Holmes and referred to them as ordinary.

"Sherlock is there anything you want me to do to help?"

"Tea, white, sugar. I need to collect the papers that need to be destroyed yet and hide them from prying eyes."

"Papers and secrets be darned," thought Dr. Watson. If Sherlock's parents were coming back from the safe house in Edinburgh, they should stay at Mycroft's town house, not even ten minutes away as the crow flies. Sherlock would have to give up his bedroom to them, the text from Mycroft made that crystal clear. So, the two flat mates would have to become roommates, both sleeping in John's upstairs bedroom, since 221C was unfit for human habitation, barely adequate as a makeshift laboratory for his eccentric genius of a pest! The last time they had shared a bedroom was during the Baskerville case, and the hotel room had two proper beds. 

"Sod it," thought the thoroughly upset surgeon. "It will be a repetition of my stag night. Sherlock will commandeer the bed, as is his wont, and I shall end up sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag. Why can't two geniuses get down to brass tack and understand mere humans' needs and wants?"

Then, the idea struck him: he sent a short message to Major Sholto and kept fiddling with his mobile until the ping of an answer made him swipe the screen: "John, both your daughter and I would be pleased to have you visit." 

That was that, then. He would go to Settle to visit Sheralyn, catch up on anything Major Sholto could reveal about Sebastian Moran, and would leave the entire Holmes family to sort things out among themselves. Making sure that one of them was properly fed and cared for seemed to have become a lifetime occupation, but looking after a brace of Holmes, especially the formidable Mrs. Holmes, was asking too much of a simple surgeon, who had faced Afghani rebels but not elemental forces of nature in the form of a comfortable-looking, even maternal disguise for a razor-sharp wit and an ability to drive the fear of God into both her sons! 

Although he wasn't exactly sure why, the thought of seeing Sheralyn again brought a smile to Dr. Watson's lips, which, of course, was a fatal mistake, when he knew that he was sharing a flat with the most observant man in Britain, possibly in the entire world! 

"Pray tell, which aspect of Mummy's visit has you smiling like the cat which got the cream?" 

"The fact that I texted James, and he replied that I could go visit my daughter for the duration of your parents' stay in the flat." Honesty was the best policy, if he didn't want to submit to a lengthy and painful interrogation. 

"I see! Do all you Army types feel that there's strength in numbers or are you afraid I might molest you in your sleep?" Sherlock's acerbic tone couldn't hide his puzzlement at the way John kept referring to the baby as 'his' daughter before the final results were produced. 

"As it happens, this is a very good chance for me to find out exactly what James knows about this Sebastian Moran!" cried Dr. Watson, starting to get seriously miffed. 

"Anyway, you may have a valid excuse! Going through all this intel with Mycroft's and Mummy's input might prove too much for your brain capacity, John! So, how many bottles of whisky, or any other spirit, will loosen the major's tongue, do you think? Apparently, you need to get some shopping done before you disappear into the countryside. If you feel under threat or undue observation at any time, our contact will be dear old Tessa! She is really reliable, despite her original lack of judgment in thinking she was dating a ghost!"

With this Parthian shot, Sherlock turned his complete attention to the file on Mary. He still had to meet the safe-cracker and set up the whole Coutts bank charade, admittedly with Mycroft's help, to get a bit closer to her motives and whereabouts.

"Not sure how many bottles as he's all but given up on the hard stuff and I haven't had a pint with him since Kandahar." John replied before disappearing to his room."

Several minutes later as John was in the kitchen packing a few things in a rucksack, Sherlock randomly comments, "Besides, as you may have noticed, I put the pillow on the sofa. I was not planning on sharing your room as I likely would have been pacing the night away anyhow. But you've made plans so now I can take over your room for 2 days." Sherlock then proceeded to start the fireplace putting in each sheet of paper slowly reviewing it 1 last time.

"Should have known that we would not have had a repeat of Baskerville. Either way it will still be a good time. Also, I'm hopping the train to Manchester then getting a lift from there. It would be a little faster and safer. And I should not cross paths with our forthcoming guests this way." John grabbed his rucksack off the table. It was sufficiently packed for his journey. "Have fun with your task, I'm off to Euston station."

Sherlock looked up from his task for a moment as he heard John head down the stairs. He returned to his work when Sherlock's mobile started ringing. He put a match to the papers to get a fire going and then picked it up.

"Brother dear, you just texted me! Quite a feat, knowing that for an intelligent person you're a Luddite when it comes to technology!"

"Sherlock, I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with your infantile side at this juncture. Apprise me of your progress."

"Since you had the kindness to leave us alone for three days, I grabbed the chance to re-order my Mind Palace, which had started to resemble a jumble sale. Your text has sent John flying into the arms of Major Sholto, so I expect you will increase security there, I shall expect our parents to arrive and shall start on making things comfortable for them as you requested. Why didn't you put them up at your place? God knows you are living alone in a detached four-bedroom house. They may find the flats cramped."

"Because, you unconscionable egotist, I have your flats secured both back and front, not to mention the internal camera system. No such measures have ever been taken in regards to my home. Mummy and Daddy will be safer there."

"Still, I shall need your help going into the central Coutts bank in Piccadilly. One of your operators -not 'Anthea'-will have to impersonate Mary. I have had a look through things and found some specimens of her signature from the time before the marriage, when she was practicing her Mary Watson signature. From them we can extrapolate the rest of her Agnes Rampage signature. I presume you have enough photographic material on file to come up with an operative who looks like her. Also, I shall need to meet the operative who called in the sighting in Andorra. Are his credentials as foolproof as they seem? It's not the first time your minions have turned out to have dual allegiances. The last occurrence cost me a very unpleasant time in Serbia."

"Very well, I shall have Harry Winston debriefed, and if anything seems off-kilter, then we can both observe his debriefing, think of it as another deduction game."

"Really, Mycroft, do you expect me to answer with something like "Right-o, old boy!" Not even Daddy would use such antediluvian expressions now! Anyway, now that John has unexpectedly but conveniently made himself scarce -I do hope he buys enough six-packs on his way to Settle to reminisce in appropriately liquid form with his Army buddy and learn as much as possible about Sebastian Moran, I have some urgent business to see to."

"Right, I shouldn't keep you from meeting your less salubrious contacts. My regards to Angelo, and tell him, next time we dine there, I would like real ricotta in my tiramisu, not the local facsimile."

It was almost a knee-jerk reaction with Sherlock: although his brother had terminated the call, he couldn't resist snarling "Piss off, Mycroft!" into the speaker.


	26. Chapter 26

It was a fact of life that Mrs. Violet Holmes was a vibrant, energetic lady, past her prime but still with an arrestingly interesting face and such intelligent eyes that those who met her once never again doubted that both Mycroft and Sherlock were her children. Besides, Siger Holmes had the quite extraordinarily chiseled facial bone structure that screamed he was Sherlock's father from afar. He had been the one to start the Civil Service tradition which Mycroft had elevated to high art. 

When both of them showed up in what was clearly one of Mycroft's armoured limousines, Sherlock was still of two minds as to whether to trust them with the particulars of Mary's disappearance or not. 

First things first, with the help of the chauffeur/ bodyguard, he transferred his parents' luggage to his own bedroom, since the bed was large enough to accommodate both of them. 

Once inside, Mrs. Holmes's eyes were drawn to the periodic table and the Japanese drawing of the art of bartitsu. "Oh, Sherlock, you have had those old things ever since school. I really should do something about redecorating the flat with the help of Mrs. Hudson. After all, a renovation should increase its value."

"And thereby my rent! No, thank you, Mummy! Now, you and Daddy make yourselves comfortable, and I shall make us all a nice cup of tea." he sighed and made for the kitchen. How on Earth would he be able to contact Angelo's acquaintance and set up the Coutt's vault heist, albeit with Mycroft's help, while his parents were foisted on him? Good old John: probably sharing a lager or three or five with Major Sholto and reminiscing about the good old times! Well, as long as John returned with information on Colonel Moran, it would have been worth it! 

Suddenly, the decision about sharing the information on Mary was taken out of his hands. Having set up the tea tray properly (shades of Jim Moriarty) and an assortment of biscuits, he carried everything to the coffee table, since he knew from past experience how his parents liked to share the dingy sofa. The file had been left there, as well, in John's hasty departure. 

After his mother had poured the tea for all three of them and added two lumps of sugar to his cup, she glanced at the file and asked: "So, how long do you expect Mary to be gone?" 

Sherlock nearly choked on his first sip of tea! To have Mycroft lording it over him as the smarter one was one thing, to have Mummy glancing at a file with a name and file number on it and correctly coming up with the right, unanswerable question made him feel stupid. If he were more inclined to sentiment, Sherlock would have apologised to Anderson at that moment: that was how his mother made him feel!  
He quickly recapitulated the main events and facts for their edification, only to hear his mother exclaim:"And I suppose, none of you idiots has taken the step to verify her mobile traffic, or her Internet usage: the young lady seems to have several accounts." 

"That was supposed to be Mycroft's job, I don't have the facilities of tracking either of these activities." was his spluttered excuse. 

"I see, and why has Mikey not done so up to now?"

Sherlock had never been much of a drinking person, but at that moment he fervently wished he could add two fingers of brandy to his tea as a handy alternative to fleeing to his hidden stash upstairs and indulging in some drug or other, although he was lucid enough to know that injected substances were out of bounds! He wondered briefly if, when John had cleared out the refrigerator to put the food away, John had discovered the innocuous aniseed-smelling bag of his cocaine suppositories. Then, he firmly put all such notions to one side, knowing how much his friend and his goddaughter needed him at the peak of his powers to bring this conundrum to a successful close. 

"I have no valid answer to your question, Mummy, the next time Mycroft drops by, you can ask him. But, she seems to be using prepaid throwaway mobiles." 

"All the same, it has been a week since she left. She must be getting desperate for news of her daughter. Did you try the personal columns of the major newspapers, or a message on Dr. Watson's blog that seemed a bit out of place? What about your own Science of Deduction site?" asked his father matter-of-factly. 

Not having deleted World War II naval warfare from his "hard drive" because he found all sea-going adventures interesting, Sherlock felt what the people on HMS Hood must have felt that instant before the Bismarck trained her guns on Hood, fired her salvo and sank the light cruiser in three minutes, appositely leaving three survivors! 

Logical conclusion: never let Mummy or Daddy near any of the suspects he helped Lestrade catch during interrogation, or the poor sods would be reduced to quivering jelly in a matter of minutes, interesting conclusion to be filed away for later. 

He explained all about the safe deposit box key and his plan to have Mary's double help him take a look inside, when his mother replied impatiently: "But Sherlock, the key and the impersonation and the fake signature aren't enough! Once the box is brought to you and your female companion, you will still need Mary's code to open the safety lock. We keep a similar safe deposit box, and the lock is a combination lock!" 

With parents like his, no wonder he had taken to drugs in his misspent youth! Taking a deep, calming breath, he excused himself and got up to escape their presence for a quick smoke on the roof. 

"And don't think you can fool us, you'll reek of tobacco on your return!" was Mrs. Holmes's pointed comment as he fairly ran out of the flat!

Sherlock reached the roof and took several deep breaths. He needed to clear his head. He reached into the pocket of his Belstaff and found what he was looking for. His parents thought that he would be smoking, but he was not. He had grabbed several nicotine patches earlier and put them next to the hidden pack of cigarettes. He was determined to be smoke free for his goddaughter any which way he could. He put 4 patches on his arm. This was even worse than the 3 patch problem he had when trying to find the serial killing cabbie.

Sherlock paced back and forth thinking through what his mother had told him about the combination lock. He quickly sent a coded message to Mycroft confirming certain details of the safety deposit box. A few minutes later he got the reply he was hoping for. Not all of the boxes had been upgraded to the new combination system and Mary's was one of the old ones that was likely to be upgraded in the next month or so. He continued pacing trying to understand where Mary would have gone and the route to get there. He mentally sorted through all of the papers he had burned while waiting for his parents to arrive. He was trying to find clues, anything that would help him find her and to keep his vow he made. 

Several minutes later he was interrupted by his father. "Hey son…

Mr. Holmes had kept his agility by assiduously following Mrs. Holmes’ lead to participate in all available dance competitions. His appearance on the roof was by no means a feat for the fit old gentleman.   
Sherlock turned at his father's voice, finding it in no way inappropriate that his father would manage to embarrass him again.

"Any thoughts on the pressing issues, Daddy?"

"William, I know how you loathe any kind of conventions, but this is the perfect time to work through channels. Your mother is right: we don't have to ask Mikey, get his very capable PA to do all the routine surveillance. On the other hand, get her to co-operate on Mary's look-alike, so that you can get to the safety deposit box as soon as conveniently possible! Mind you, I think that your friend DS Donovan has a friend who could stand in for Mary, I seem to remember her face from all the Waters' gang publicity."

"Daddy, if I approach "Anthea" the goldfish behind Mycroft's back, he's quite capable of rescinding any pardon and sending me off to face Heaven knows what horrors without the possibility of a reprieve! It's simply not an option! As for Sally, why would she help me when I have insulted or embarrassed her so many times? It's true that she helped with the baby, but she has no incentive to help me personally. In addition, I have another little matter to attend to, and John's absence makes it infinitely easier."

"No doubt one of your less salubrious acquaintances, then. But I still think that DS Donovan is your best bet when considering the Coutts safe deposit vault. Why don't you contact her and find out?"

"Ah, yes, that would also mean going behind Gavin's back, since he's her DI..."

"Sherlock, enough of your games! Call Greg, if you must, go through proper channels, do things by the book for a change!"

"Seriously, Daddy, when did impersonation for the procurement of private documents become a 'by the book' procedure?"

"Just do it!" 

"Yes, sir, I shall," old habits dying hard, Sherlock replied, ripped the patches off his arm, since he didn't plan on getting nicotine poisoning, pulled out the cigarettes he had stashed in his pocket, offered one to his father, then lit both before pulling out his mobile phone: "Hello, brother dear, just wanted to let you know Mummy and Daddy are settling down quite nicely, and I shall need "Anthea's" help in some fairly routine work, which, you will be interested to know, had escaped both our observational skills but fortunately occurred to Mummy."

The splutter at the other end of the line was enough to put a smile on Sherlock's face!

However, his gleeful expression at catching Mycroft out was quickly wiped off his face, when his mother put her head out of the skylight in Dr. Watson's bedroom (Sherlock's for the duration of his parents' stay) and asked her stereotypical: "Are you two smoking?"

Both men looked a bit sheepish, but his father replied smoothly: "They are my herbal ones, Violet, dear. Nothing to worry about."

One is never too old to learn, considered Sherlock: both he and Mycroft had got their unusual minds from their mother, but the ability to keep calm and lie glibly and convincingly, which was so useful to Mycroft in government, seemed to come from his father, who immediately rose in his estimation of character.

Swiping his mobile to terminate the call so as not to make Mycroft an unwitting eavesdropper, he turned to face his mother.

"It's your landlady, dear! Something about a delivery of papers into your own hands."  
Mindful not to prove his father a liar and cause "a little domestic", Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette on his heel and then threw it over the parapet, in the general direction of Mrs. Hudson's back garden. He didn't think his mother would go down three flights of stairs, rummage around the sunlight-starved plants and retrieve a cigarette butt just to check up on her husband. On the other hand, given her analysis of the situation, he wouldn't put anything past her ever again!

He followed her down into the second-floor bedroom, then went downstairs, where another of Mycroft's men was standing in the hallway, with a large document envelope in his hands.  
"I accept delivery of these documents and shall handle them according to instructions."  
Without a word, the man made a slight bow and left.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see that Mrs. Hudson's door was ajar, so she would have observed the whole scene.

He took the thing upstairs, plunked it on the office table and was reaching for a paper-knife, when his mother's anguished :"William!" stopped him in mid-action.

"Please, don't touch the flap, nor the securing clip. If I were you, I would put on biohazard gloves and then proceed with caution."

"But, Mummy, the person who delivered it is one of Mycroft's regular drivers!"

"Then his service has acquired some double agents; or why has a perfectly ordinary securing clip acquired such a peculiar blue cast?" Cataract surgery obviously had its uses! Sherlock had not observed the faint bluish tinge on the offending item. More importantly, although he had briefly entertained the idea of Mycroft's service having been successfully infiltrated ever since that nationwide broadcast, he had accepted yet another sheaf of Mycroft's "top secret" paperwork with such an innate sense of bored aversion that he had been careless!

He put on a pair of biohazard gloves, took a pair of scissors, opened the file from the other end, extracted the papers, which seemed to be a report on the safely incarcerated Moriarty (twin), then used one of his own bubble-coated envelopes to stuff everything in it, wrote a short note about the incident, which he enclosed, drew a skull and crossbones sign in indelible marker on it, eliciting a delighted smile from his father, addressed it to Mycroft as Personal, Private and Confidential, so that only "Anthea" would have the authority to open it, went downstairs once more, walked to the end of Baker Street, handed it to the homeless girl on "duty" together with a twenty-pound note, and on his way back he popped into Waitrose's to get fresh milk, eggs and bacon, not forgetting a packet of herbal cigarettes from the chemist's, just in case Mummy decided to go through his father's pockets, as she was known to do when she prepared the laundry. He opened it and extracted two cigarettes, which he threw in the shop's bin.


	27. Chapter 27

On the way back to the flat Sherlock noticed a not very tall, thin, middle-aged man, who stopped leaning against the wall of the next house and walked up to him: "Mr. 'Olmes, Angelo sent message you were looking for me."

Finally, he could put his secondary plan into action! Definitely above a six, if he wanted to bypass Mycroft's omnipresent beak of a nose poking in all corners of this business. 

He looked the man up and down, registered the few details missing from what he had known of him as Angelo's long-time friend and prison mate. Inveterate gambler, as evidenced by the betting slips bunched up in left trouser pocket, chain-smoker as evidenced by the yellowing fingers, occasional drinker, as evidenced by the stain on the left shirt sleeve which bore the pattern of a spill on a pub's little round table, freshly but not carefully shaven with an electric razor, unattached at the moment, but probably frequenting the local in his area of Islington in the hope of a liaison, however brief.  
"Ah, yes! Very considerate of Angelo's. I have been meaning to use your skills for quite some time now. Let us go back to my flat, since I'm not free to accompany you elsewhere at the moment."

"Ye're doing yer own shopping now, just like the rest of us."

"Yes, needs must and all that, Mr. ..."

"Smith, George Smith at your service, Mr. 'Olmes."

"Call me Sherlock. Every time you call me Mr. Holmes I expect to see either Daddy or Mycroft behind me!"

Having reached the flat, Sherlock plunked the shopping bags onto the kitchen table, whither Mrs. Holmes was immediately attracted, then palmed the herbal cigarette packet off to his father, who was standing at the left-hand window, apparently staring at nothing in particular, and then led the visitor to the roof: their transaction could not be carried out either in the presence of his parents or within Mycroft's sphere of constant monitoring. 

To make matters doubly safe, he led the increasingly puzzled man across the adjacent roof onto the little rooftop garden of the block of flats two doors down. 

Once there, he offered his visitor a cigarette and took one himself, this time more for the companionable feeling it would produce, rather than his need for one. 

"So, Mr. ...Smith," he hesitated long enough to make the other realise that he could tell an alias "I need you to show me how to open a late 1960s office Stanmore safe with a six digit rotating wheel and definitely connected to the best current alarm system." 

"Mr. 'Olmes...Sherlock, if the alarm system is powered by lasers or any other invisible weight change mechanism, it will make the task doubly difficult." 

"Forget about the alarm system, for the moment; let us say the owner can be induced to forget to set them. Focus on the safe." 

"Well, yer need a stethoscope to catch the faint click when the rotating wheels click to the correct setting, yer can't wear gloves, because Stanmores're pretty fiddly, yer need to carry baby wipes to wipe down the whole surface after ye're done with it. In fact, there's such an old model back at the pub I go to with Angelo, bet ye could practice yer technique there!" 

"Very well, Mr. Smith, I am grateful for your instructions. We could meet up with Angelo, get the owner's permission to play with his toy, and you could show me the fastest routines. In the meantime, here's fifty pounds to bet at Goodwood tomorrow, and I shall text Angelo to let you know further details."  
"That's mighty han'some of yer, Mr. 'Olmes. Let me know when we need to start." With this, he went to the fire escape, slithered down it and disappeared from view. 

Sherlock couldn't let anyone know that said safe stood at the left corner of Mycroft's office, to one side of the Queen's portrait! But, he had formed a very concrete idea about Mycroft's knowledge of Mary's past "indiscretions" and wanted to find out what proof could be hidden in that safe. 

He made his way back to the flat, gingerly avoiding pipes, loose lead roof proofing and such. Once inside, his mobile beeped with an incoming text message: "Why did Mummy take exception to Anthea's doing her nails during office hours and dropping some finishing varnish onto the securing pin and the flap? MH"

If Sherlock were a swearing kind of man, this would have been the perfect opportunity to swear a blue streak! Instead, he went to the living room and handed his mobile to his mother. 

"Oh, dear! But better safe than sorry, my boy!" was her only comment, while his father smiled wryly and made a hands-up gesture behind her back, at which Sherlock couldn't help but smile. 

There was always something, after all. 

Sherlock managed to survive a relatively uneventful second day with his parents. He was thankful for that as the night before had been rather warm when he grabbed his coat during the moment of being flustered by his mother. She knew how to mess with his mind even if she was not doing it on purpose. He was more than happy when Mycroft arrived to escort them away until he saw something that was purposely left behind.

British Secret Services Project: Foxtrot Moonglow 105 Priority Crucial

>   
>  RE: Operative Abbigail Grace Ramage Aarons (AKA Abbigail Grace Ramage, Abbigail Grace Renee Anderson, Amanda Gwen Renee Andersdatter, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, Mary Elizabeth Watson)
> 
> Date: 8 August, 2014
> 
> Brolly,
> 
> A traditional 1812 English Breakfast is being served at the Eagle's Nest compliments of 5. Benedict Arnold should no longer be an issue. Lizard was involved and redirected back to a different secure facility. Ms. Aarons had indeed met him and Scorpion as previously mentioned. Neither Scorpion nor Ms. Aarons was with Lizard at time of recapture. Previous memo on secure Lizard was indeed fabricated by B. A. Also nail varnish will no longer be reapplied at work so as not to alarm the Queen Bee.
> 
> ~Church Secretary  
> 

Sherlock seemed satisfied that the double agent had been taken care of. Sentiment aside, he was kind of sad to see the Eagle's Nest disappearing as it was a decent bolt hole while he was taking down Moriarty's network. However, he did enjoy reading the reference to the movie Mary insisted he watch as well as knowing 1 ingredient involved in the building's demise.

Sherlock sent off a quick message to Angelo asking for a time to meet with Mr. Smith and figure out the safe. "Now to wait for John to get back and get any new information he may have."

Sherlock knew that Angelo led a very full life, what with running his Italian restaurant as an autocrat, practically never delegating tasks, and his other activities Sherlock would go out of his way NOT to investigate for Lestrade. Still, he was quite pleased when Angelo texted that a meeting of all three was set up for their next round of darts at the pub in Islington. It meant that Angelo had either got permission from the owner to leave Sherlock and Mr. 'Smith' alone in his office for whatever tenure necessitated Sherlock's learning how to open the safe as fast and as silently as possible, or was prepared to distract the owner's attention while the safe-cracking lesson was underway. One way or another, he had to become proficient at it, since he was almost certain that Mycroft's safe contained the full particulars on Mary Watson's past life, which would help him predict her actions and possibly help him locate her.

Also, he was reasonably certain that Mummy would have apprised Mycroft of her ideas on the way home, so that his big brother would be aware of the multiple dangers still lurking in the shadows of their various pasts! 

Heaving a sigh, he then put on his jacket and prepared to go out. After less than a week of the baby's constant presence in the flat, her absence lay heavier on him than the absence of his long-time flatmate! Sentiment, he chided himself, called out to Mrs. Hudson on his way past her door, then hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to NSY. 

Although he and Sally had patched things up a bit over the baby, he needed her to help him liaise with the petite blonde DS Amanda Pierce, who was so much a look-alike for Mary that with the proper makeup she could pass as Mary Watson. Heaving another sigh, he realised that for his ploy to succeed, he might even have to grovel in front of Sally: but that was all right, since it was for the baby's benefit!  
Briefly revisiting Mycroft's cryptic message in his mind, he found it strangely reassuring that neither Mary nor ex-Colonel Moran had attempted to contact THIS Moriarty! Of course, he knew that DNA tests to establish parenthood took longer than those used in matching blood and other bodily fluids, but they should have an answer as to Sheralyn's parentage later in the day, or next morning at the very latest!  
Sherlock had to admit to himself that deep down he didn't want her to be John's daughter. Was it the green-eyed monster curled around the heart he had so airily claimed not to possess in a bravado gesture against Moriarty, or another sentiment involving Mary not being part of John's life any longer?  
While Sherlock pondered on the vagaries of life and his many miscalculations involving John Watson and the good doctor's reaction to Sherlock's approach to things, he realised that finding Mary or her current whereabouts would need loads of co-operation, something that did not come naturally to a loner such as himself.

Once outside NSY, he paid off the cab and reached for a soothing cigarette before having himself announced to DS Donovan. All things being equal, asking a favour of her would always rankle, because his eidetic memory would never let him forget how her suspicions had led to the whole deception on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. No matter how many times he had tried to rationalise her behaviour as being another building block in (hopefully) the late Moriarty's overall plan, her antipathy and low opinion of himself could not be erased, try as he might!

Still, there were things to be done and appointments to keep, so he took a last drag on his cigarette, disposed of the fang in the nearest cast-iron bin, squared his shoulders and proceeded to go through the process that would lead him to Donovan's office. It was an occasion when Lestrade's absence was fervently to be hoped!

Sure enough, Sherlock found Donovan buried in paperwork when he knocked at her office door. She looked up in wonder:" If it's the DI you want, he has just stepped over to the Commissioner’s office..."  
Sherlock briefly wondered how Mycroft could gauge his younger brother's every action and choreograph the expected result so accurately, but thrust the thought firmly aside when Mind Palace Mycroft taunted: " I am the smarter one!"

Instead, he plastered on his most insincere smile and approached Sally behind her desk. It was once more a case of honesty being the best policy. He had successfully manipulated Sally in the past, this was neither the time nor the place; "Sally, you and I have had our differences in the past, but you showed a more humane side of yourself when you helped in the case of Sheralyn. We are investigating the disappearance of her mother, and I need you to put me into personal contact with your friend and colleague Amanda Pierce."

"What has the poor dear done to deserve your attentions, Sherlock?" The absence of "freak" was duly noted, but ignored in the interest of expediency.

"It's for a confidential mission, Sally, strictly on a 'need to know' basis!"

"Very well, if you promise to return my friend in one piece at the end of your hush-hush operation, I shall perform the introductions."

"Thank you, Sally that would be acceptable. Anything you would like my help with in all that paperwork?"

"How come you're so accommodating all of a sudden, f..., Sherlock?"

"You helped that first day with Sheralyn, one good turn deserves another, or so people say."

"You aren't 'people', you're unique! Come on, I shall make the introductions; Amanda works in the financial crime division. Let's take the lift."

As they were exciting Sally's office, Sherlock's mobile pinged with an incoming message: the DNA results! What an inopportune moment to receive such momentous news!

British Secret Services Project: Foxtrot Moonglow 105 Priority Crucial 

> RE: Operative Abbigail Grace Ramage Aarons (AKA Abbigail Grace Ramage, Abbigail Grace Renee Anderson, Amanda Gwen Renee Andersdatter, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, Mary Elizabeth Watson)
> 
> 9 August, 2014
> 
> Red Beard,
> 
> DNA match: Chameleon and Lizard are brothers and twins. However, not identical twins. Their DNA has a couple of slight variances on Chromosome 25. Three Continents is a distant relation of Chameleon and Lizard. They are 1st Cousins 4 times removed. We are not sure yet between the twins and Three Continents which ones are the grandson(s) or the great-great-great-great-grandson(s) of the common ancestor.
> 
> Paternity: Scorpion and you are obviously out. Your DNA was grabbed for security purposes only to make sure the test was done correctly although you were not mentioned in any of the communiqués about the testing. Chameleon was ruled out do to the aforementioned variances leaving Lizard & Three Continents. We triple checked the results and they both are the father. It's a rare condition where an egg was fertilized by 2 sperm resulting in twins, but the twins merged creating a chimera. I will let you tell Three Continents that Little Lamb is part his.
> 
> ~Brolly

Of course, she would be part John's and part Moriarty's twin brother. He was thankful that John was not back at Baker Street yet. His train was due to arrive that evening giving Sherlock sometime to figure out how to break the news. "Sorry Sally, I just received a most bizarre message from my brother." He responded knowing what her look meant. "Don't worry everything is fine regarding Sheralyn and John."

"Well we're here." Sally replied back as the lift door opened not surprised that Sherlock deduced her question before she could even ask it. "Follow me and please don't deduce anyone out loud here. If there is something up, you can tell me later in my office and I will pass it on to Lestrade."

"Duly noted. Wouldn't dream of messing up my chance of finding Mary." Sherlock stated as they left the lift. He followed Sally through the maze of cubicles until they were outside DS Amanda Pierce's office.

"Amanda, Sherlock needs to talk with you about an important case he's working on. It is a matter of national security or something like that. Sherlock, this is Amanda, please be nice to her." With that, Sally left to get back to her paperwork.

Sherlock found himself looking down at a petite, compact, short-haired, blue-eyed woman in plainclothes, whose resemblance to Mary went further than skin-deep. However, with the time-bomb message on his phone, he found that he couldn't care less if DS Pierce and Mary were distant cousins four times removed or some such combination. 

Still, being who he was, or rather what his mind was, he saw from the slight stains on her sleeve that she had had a rather sugary breakfast of donuts and a latte, that, like Donovan, she was not in a firm relationship from the absence of any tell-tale jewellery, that, like Molly, she had a tabby cat judged by the stray hairs on her beige tailored slacks, and that her nicotine-stained left middle-finger made her left-handed, like John, and a smoker like himself. From the way she had been peering from her computer screen to the documents in front of her, he deduced an ocular distortion, which might necessitate her wearing contact lenses for their visit to the bank, since Mary only wore reading glasses, and that clandestinely. 

"Well, Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you? Financial crime very rarely yields up a body, unless it be the body of a poor pensioner who committed suicide after losing his life savings in a scam or another."  
"Sherlock, please, Ms. Pierce. Every time someone calls me 'Mr. Holmes', I expect to see Daddy or my brother Mycroft standing behind me. In point of fact, my brother will have to invoke the Official Secrets Act at one point of our operation, but I would like you to accompany me to a visit to Coutt's main branch, where the vaults are kept, and whilst there help me obtain access to the contents of a specific strongbox, the owner of which you do not need to know."

"Why should I blindly follow your instructions, Mr. …pardon, Sherlock, and why should it be me?"  
"Fair questions, Ms...Amanda. The contents of that strongbox may prove vital in a manhunt, or should that be 'woman'? Anyway, the search for a person of great importance to laying the ghost of Jim Moriarty to sleep once and for all and to re-uniting a little family, whose most important member has gone missing..."

"And who I happen to bear a more than passing resemblance to, or you wouldn't have needed to go through Sally to get on my good graces, Mr. Holmes!" She stood up from her office and came right up to him. In his customary fashion, he instinctively crossed his hands behind his back and straightened himself even more. 

"Oh, don't bother, Mr. Holmes, stature and posture haven't intimidated me since my teens. I barely scraped through the height regulation for WPC and celebrated my success by vowing that I would never consider myself short again! What are my guarantees that I shan't be pursued legally for impersonating the missing lady?" 

"If you are amenable to the task, the requisite waivers will be drawn up, providing you with full legal protection, as far as the current laws of the land can cover the incident. For instance, you shouldn't do any talking, letting me handle all the verbal communication, because then you can swear you were not an active participant. You will be provided with a set of clothes belonging to the missing woman, and I would suggest that you come by the flat, change there and then accompany me to the bank. Ms...Amanda, it is of the most vital importance, I give you my word!"

"Well, the word of a gentleman has lost much of its currency in this day and age, but on the other hand, dealing with numbers, spreadsheets and cooked books all day long can get a bit repetitive, despite its intrinsic allure of the perfection to be found in mathematics. You are on. I shall be glad to help out in this little charade of yours. A little adventure at your side, Mr. ...Sherlock, would last me quite a while in the cafeteria and beside the water cooler, not to mention that I could look Sally in the eye. She has quite monopolised your attention over the last few years. How she preens over her collaboration with you and DI Lestrade, you have no idea!"

That Sherlock's mouth didn't drop open in complete and utter astonishment at this last declaration was entirely due to another vibrating sense on his mobile: John was calling!

A look of annoyance crossed Sherlock's face, which didn't escape the compact blonde: "Mr. Holmes, I hope and pray it's good news!"

Inwardly, Sherlock cringed: from long experience, the good doctor knew not to phone him unless in dire situations: this was, obviously, one of them! "Amanda, please excuse me, while I take this call," he said and went out in the corridor, swiping the screen as he strode out of her office: "Hello, John, what's happened?" he asked cautiously, in view of the truly amazing facts he would have to give to his friend regarding Sheralyn in a few hours, if all went well: British train services had become so unreliable after their privatisation that reaching one's destination on time in the same train one started out in was well-nigh a miracle nowadays! 

A truly irate Dr. Watson could be heard clearly taking deep breaths between words: "You can tell that towering imbecile of a brother of yours that all the Queen's horses and all the Queen's men couldn't prevent an apparently elite force of what sounded like former Spetnatz men from kidnapping Sheralyn."  
Sherlock felt light-headed, as if the world was spinning round him. The mobile fell from his grip and the next he knew, both Donovan and Pierce were hovering over him, bringing him to the inescapable conclusion that he was lying in one of the NSY infirmary beds. 

He struggled to a semi-recumbent position, but Sally forced him back down: "Amanda has communicated the news to Mr. Holmes, our duty doctor says your blood glucose levels are a new low in her experience, I have notified DI Lestrade, and you are to remain here until you can stand unaided! What the flaming nonsense have you been doing to yourself, Holmes, running on fumes?"

He lay back down, but couldn't prevent himself from a last jab at the person who was becoming his favourite sparring partner: "Wait until I tell John that Sheralyn is both his and ex-colonel James Moriarty's daughter, Sally!"

"What?! You can't be serious. How?" Donovan's jaw dropped.

"Got the message from my brother on our way up to see Amanda. She's a chimera. She would have been a twin otherwise but the twins merged back together creating her. Hand me my phone please. I must contact my brother. There is something up in his network of goldfish. Thank you, now if you will excuse me a moment. It is something under the official secrets act and all." Sherlock chimed as if it was something completely obvious.

"M, goldfish compromised. Little Lamb kidnapped per Three Continents. Will be on it eventually. Do something about your crew before I do. We know what happened the last time I took care of something. ~SH"

"Do eat something brother mine. You're no use with crashed blood sugar. Have an apple at least along with a good piece of Red Leicester. You used to love that as a kid as I recall. I would also recommend the goldfish crackers that mum brought over for you from their last trip to the US. Those should not be compromised unlike the previous batch. They might be good for those experiments you so like to do. ~M" That was Mycroft's way of saying he was looking into the situation as a whole and wouldn't mind if Sherlock did something to weed out the mole.

Sherlock did eat some food. He had to settle for a banana and a chunk of cheddar. Within a few minutes he was able to stand unassisted and began the process of getting to Major Sholto's place.  
The first thing Sherlock did was to ask Sally to leave him and DS Pierce alone, because after this latest twist of events, he HAD to get into the Coutts bank vaults, and he extremely disliked having one of his most recent allies forced to take an Official Secrets oath. DS Pierce, on the other hand, needed to be kept informed, because she was absolutely indispensable in his plans. The code to the safety deposit box could be worked on by one of Lady Smallwood's or Mycroft's computer nerds. The one still owed him a favour, the other was his pesky older brother! 

Then, he texted Angelo to inform him that, barring any mishaps, their appointment at the pub stood as arranged. Truth be told, above all things currently attracting his attention, Mycroft's nondescript antiquated vault drew him like a magnet! 

Feeling weak at the knees, he sat back down on the emergency ward bed, whereupon DS Pierce took matters in her own hands and disappeared for as long as he sorted things out on his mobile phone, only to reappear with a whole chocolate Hobnobs packet and a cup of freshly-pressed orange juice, both of which she deposited at his side.

"My gran swore by fresh orange juice to raise low blood pressure, and Sally says you have a sweet tooth, despite your cadaverous appearance!"

"Thank you, Amanda, you have your priorities and your head screwed on right! I think that we will get along famously, once my brother sorts out the paperwork!" 

He gulped down the cool juice and nibbled at a biscuit, while he texted Mycroft to arrange transport and a reliable escort to Major Sholto's rather remote and isolated place. Mary's "he's almost a recluse" came into his mind unbidden, and, curse his eidetic memory, she was wearing that otherworldly, delicate lace wedding gown as she said it! 

However, DS Pierce was made of sterner stuff than her appearance suggested: she ripped the biscuit package open, strewing crumbs all over the counter pane, and started handing him biscuit after biscuit until he had finished all twelve of them. "I deliberately bought the small packet...Sherlock..."

"So that you could stuff me like a Christmas goose, I get it, Amanda. Now, you will need to sign some extra paperwork, on top of your Police Force oath of duty, and I have an appointment to keep. Thank you for taking this whole madness in your stride and not making a fuss."

"Mr. Holmes...Sherlock, once this, whatever it is, is over, you owe me a carton of your brother's Bond Street special Latakeia filter tipped cigarettes." 

"You are a connoisseur, Amanda! I'm impressed! Just for this, I shall make him cough up, no pun intended, two cartons for you. What do you think?"

"That it's Christmas! Let's get you presentable and on your way, then!" she replied, accompanied him to the gents' room, having palmed an electric razor somewhere, and left him to his cursory ablutions.

After all, Mycroft's escort and 4x4 would be waiting to drive him to Major Sholto's place in ten minutes.  
While Sherlock was getting ready, he came up with a plan to help weed out the mole. His first priority was his driver. His second was Major Sholto's staff. Sherlock wondered if any of them had been bought off. He was ready in five minutes and headed down the stairs to the front of NSY. Sherlock needed the right thing to happen on the trip so that he could vet the driver to check for mole status or otherwise in cohort with the mole. "M, need beaver en route to destination. Please provide with location. ~SH"  
Having collected all his things, Sherlock prepared to leave by the NSY rear exit, where Mycroft's car would have been parked, when he noted that his mobile was fully charged and that the charger bore the distinctive double loop favoured by DS Donovan. So Sally had looked after this side of the matter while her friend and colleague had looked after his physical needs and acquiesced to his directions! 

On top of that, as he started for that exit, the two women flanked him, and when he noticed that the much shorter Amanda had to lengthen her stride to keep up, he slowed his pace deliberately. After all, the woman would prove indispensable in the next part of his plan, he wasn't doing it solely out of consideration for her shorter legs, he rationalised to himself, but Sally threw him a speculative look anyway! 

Once outside, in the parking area, he nodded his thanks to both women, strode up to Mark, Mycroft's personal driver, who was lounging on the door of a dark grey Land Rover and asked him if he had been given the proper directions. 

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I am to drive you to Settle, near Leeds, and we are to pick up another of Mr. Mycroft's men on the way!" 

Again, he acknowledged the information with a nod and got into the passenger seat, buckling up, deliberately ignoring the look of indignation bordering on outrage on Mark's face. A Holmes riding in the front! What was the world coming to! He could almost hear the driver's thoughts, and permitted himself a small smile. He had other, and much bigger fish to fry than to placate his brother's trusted driver's offended sense of propriety!

Taking out his phone, he proceeded to fiddle with it, since his brain was working on the concepts of the moles, plural! He was now convinced that there was a mole in the Serious Crimes division of Scotland Yard, and he was almost sure of his identity: a pale, blond man who had been there as he, John and Lestrade were desperately trying to unravel the ticking human bomb conundrums set up by Jim in their first serious confrontation. He couldn't recall the man's name, so nondescript and innocuous had he appeared that he had slipped past everyone's radar, including Sherlock's; annoying as a contaminated experiment, but not lethal, as the mole in Mycroft's organisation was. He created an addendum in his Mind Palace, calling the man the Wraith, for want of a better description, and focused, instead, on the much more serious matter of the whole Moriarty-Moran-Mary conundrum. 

Fact: Jim Moriarty had been an arch-villain who felt that he, Sherlock, was his only worthy foe. 

Fact: Jim Moriarty had pulled a gun on him on the roof of the hospital, much as he had pulled John's gun on Moriarty at the pool, both of them fully prepared to use the weapon. 

Fact: Jim Moriarty had blown his own brains out, while he, Sherlock, had had to abandon home, friends and family (query: should Mycroft be counted as family, given his propensity to shield Charles Augustus Magnussen? - tentative affirmative), to hunt down all of Jim's main partners in crime. 

Fact: John had been left to fend for himself, a known manic depressive who had once almost eaten a bullet, as they said in his circle, bereft of his best friend and colleague. No wonder that when Mary had approached him in her inoffensive nurse persona, he had latched onto her like a drowning man. Oh, why had he driven Sarah away? A good head on her shoulders, a cal demeanour and a fellow clinician to boot! 

Fact: All known associates of Jim Moriarty had been taken out, one by one, sometimes with the help of an enchantingly beautiful adventuress. 

Fact: Jim Moriarty had a twin, ex-Colonel James Moriarty, whose connection to ex-Colonel Moran John had probably elucidated before the abduction of Sheralyn. 

Fact: Mary was Sheralyn's natural mother, whatever her past (query: Mycroft's office safe a main concern on the matter of Mary's past) 

Fact: Sheralyn was a rare breed, indeed, whose genetic makeup could even interest Mummy as a statistical aberration!

Fact: The late unlamented Charles Augustus Magnussen had hinted at possible ways to hurt Mary through her unsavoury past. (query: connection of Mary to the snipers at the pool, the Waters' gang and Jim Moriarty. There were supposed to be four Waters gang members, but on the day Sherlock had almost inadvertently caused DI Lestrade to miss a spectacular arrest, there had been only three gang members apprehended!)

Supposition: Mary could have engineered Sheralyn's abduction, aided and abetted by the innocuous-looking Dave Inchcape, not so much out of an overriding maternal instinct, but under orders from the Moriarty network being reformed under the joint control of the two ex-colonels, one of whom was securely held by Mycroft's minions.  
Supposition: If there was one mole in Mycroft's organisation, there could be sleeper agents, too, like the ones Jim Moriarty had used to break into the Tower of London, the Bank of England central vault and Pentonville prison. 

Conclusion: interrogate Major Sholto's staff using techniques similar to the abduction of the US Ambassador's children and elicit all available information by inspecting the site of the abduction. (query: prior personal involvement with Tessa might weaken his resolve! Special attention to be paid to this weak link. He could hear John's chiding: sentiment is a defect found on the losing side, Sherlock?

Now that he had brought order to his thoughts, Sherlock evoked Sheralyn's smile as he held her up to burp or laid her on his stomach to have a mutual gentle tickle and a soothing time together, and he vowed that his god daughter would be united with one of her fathers, since John had been included in his vow, not Jim's twin!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are really sorry that this is not updated regularly, but since it's a collective effort, we're doing the best we can. Thanks for reading!

The drive up to Settle was duly interrupted once they had reached the M25 to pick up Mycroft's aide who would help them liaise, and had probably been personally vetted by Mycroft himself in order to help ferret out the mole in Major Sholto's establishment: one of the persons responsible for the child's safety who had helped in her abduction. 

Another non-descript pale youngster with a mop of lanky blonde hair, this one wearing an off-the-peg charcoal-grey suit and a pale blue cotton-mix shirt. He reminded Sherlock of the NSY lowly staffer, so much so that he wondered if there was a mould for the younger echelons in the Moriarty web of international crime and infiltration. For the moment, however, and until he held incontrovertible evidence to the contrary, Sherlock had to trust this young aide in unraveling what had happened at Major Sholto's figuratively impenetrable secure retreat.

Sherlock chided himself at the thought, remembering how he, Lestrade, John and the local police force reinforcements had extricated Anthem and Mycroft from ex-Colonel Moriarty's grip.

Thankfully, the young man, after showing his credentials (Richard Sorge, by name), remained silent, allowing Sherlock to continue his mental exercise in extrapolating possibilities and eliminating improbabilities in the case.

The two female DSs' practical help and the enforced relaxation of a long car journey proved of inestimable value, however, once they arrived at the secluded farmhouse-conversion about a mile outside Settle.

No sooner had the driver pulled up outside the main entrance, so that Sherlock could get out of the car, punch in the agreed code to open the front gates, get back in the car and be driven to the main building, than a plainly flustered Dr Watson barreled out of the door, closely followed by the heavily disfigured host.

"Sherlock, we have got to do something, anything, she has got the baby..."

"Mr. Holmes, I hope you didn't save my life at Watson's wedding to see it end ignominiously, after I failed a friend and comrade so abysmally!"

"What is it with you ex-military types that drives you to an all-or-nothing solution? We need concrete answers, not futile heroics!" Sherlock found it almost unbearably poignant to see his best friend in such a state, especially bearing in mind what he had to tell Dr. Watson about Sheralyn.

"Says the self-righteous dick who selflessly dropped to his apparent death right in front of my eyes!" retorted John.

"And if I hadn't, you would not have sought solace in Mary's arms, not impregnated her, not married her! Perhaps you would have married me? Mr. Three-Continents, Not Gay Watson? Stop being so selfish, John, and let us unravel this case like any other. After all, it is what I do for a living. Mr. Sorge has been seconded to me by Mycroft to help in the investigation. Now, can we get inside the house, talk to the personnel and really look for all possible clues, as we should?"

Major Sholto put a steadying hand on Dr. Watson's shoulder, (the injured one, Sherlock noticed, using his working arm), nodded once and gestured for all of them to get in. The driver was duly sent to the servants' quarters, for some refreshment and some well-earned rest. Only Heaven knew when Sherlock might require his services again.

The four men made their way to the library, with its deep, wine-coloured-leather chairs, and Mr. Sholto rang for tea. It arrived promptly, served by the rather saucy blonde maid who had admitted to kinky hijinx with the Mayfly Man. It included hot buttered crumpets, freshly-baked scones and a truly imposing pound cake. High tea indeed, but Sherlock, except for loading his tea with sugar, touched nothing. After DS Pierce's ministrations, he doubted he could face solid food for at least twelve hours longer!

"John, before we start on our investigation, there's something you must know: Sheralyn is both yours and ex-Colonel Moriarty's. It seems, after all, that David Inchcape had really ended his affair with Mary before you became romantically involved with her. Her real lover is the person who presented himself as James Moriarty at the flat, and quite rightly, according to his data, tried to reclaim his daughter."

"A child cannot have two biological fathers, you ignorant consulting nuisance of a friend!"

"Yes, John, it can. It's very rare, because the baby should have developed into non-identical twins, one yours, the other Moriarty's, but it didn't, so there you have it: Sheralyn is a chimaera."

"Sherlock, you either stop this nonsense right now, or you will get another punch in the face!" replied an irate Dr. Watson, and Sherlock noticed how he balled his fists, the bantam rooster always looking for a fight!

"No, John, listen to me, please!"

Sherlock handed John his phone after opening the message from Mycroft. John read the words for himself and his jaw dropped. 

"Now can you tell me what happened with Sheralyn's disappearance?" As much as Sherlock did care for John as a friend, he had to get to the task at hand and find his god-daughter as well as her mother.

It was at this point that Major Sholto provided the much-needed level-headed approach. 

"I should think, Mr. Holmes, that you had better start by examining the baby's and John's room, because it was literally through a breaking and entering that the three masked people reached that particular part of the house, took the baby and disappeared."

Three, just like the Waters gang at the bank heist! How deep was Mary's involvement with the late Jim Moriarty, and, more importantly, what role did the ex-colonel Moriarty play in his brother's illicit affairs?

Instead of jumping up and doing what the major suggested, however, Sherlock fidgeted in the overstuffed chair, reclined as far back as he could and turned to face his host. 

"For the moment, Major, I would like you to tell me all you and John here could recall about the two ex-colonels, James Moriarty, since he's implicated biologically, and Sebastian Moran, who appears to have become a major player in the late Jim Moriarty's criminal network." He was getting sick and tired of being called 'Mr. Holmes', but he had to base his suspicions on some solid data. Above all, he abhorred found less assumptions! 

Lifting his teacup to his mouth, he made himself look even more comfortable, which seemed to unnerve the Major. Interesting!

Major Sholto launched on a tale of professional military life, describing both men as highly competent in their respective fields, (Colonel Moriarty had been head of the logistics and supply part of their past operations in places like Kuwait in the 90s, with his last posting oversees being Iraq, which explained why John, much more junior and on his first posting overseas being Afghanistan, had never laid eyes on him), while Colonel Moran was a very hard disciplinarian in the Marines' special operations unit. Apparently, his way of treating prisoners had come to the attention of his superiors several times (dead bodies were not always easy to hide among the carnage of fighting, as seemed to be his modus operandi, so he was eventually brought before an investigative committee whose findings were that he would either have to resign or be court-martialled). His sharpshooting skills were legendary, as were his many conquests and his almost compulsive gambling habit. Once again, John had narrowly missed meeting Moran, as his tour of duty in Afghanistan had started barely a fortnight after the Colonel had handed in his resignation and had been shipped home together with some severe cases that needed treatment at a fully-equipped hospital, not an army field unit. 

At the end of the tale, Sherlock flicked his glance over John, thus ensuring through the doctor's sitting posture that whatever Major Sholto had said was what John had been told as well, placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table, got up, and buttoning his jacket, as was his wont, he pivoted on his heels: "That was a most informative tale, Major, now we shall proceed to look over the room, as you first suggested. Are you coming, John?"

"Just try to keep me away, especially now!" 

"The mysteries of fatherhood!"

"Don't jibe about it, just do what you always do, and then we may get her back!"

As they were being shown upstairs, Sherlock turned to his friend and erstwhile partner: "One question, why did you characterise the three masked intruders as Spetznatz types?"

"They were talking in Russian or Ukrainian, at least, one of them used a swear-word in one or the other of these languages. We only caught a glimpse of them as they were leaving. Sherlock, we have to get her back, she's so little, so weak after her hospitalisation, so vulnerable, and they put her in a carry-all and she's afraid of the dark, and..."

"John, you're not helping! Calm down, use your not inconsiderable skills and help me locate all possible clues. We're going to get her back alive." 

Dr. Watson, who had already heard the story of the two ex-colonels from the lips of his former commanding officer ('previous' per Sherlock), climbed the narrow staircase to the first floor, where his and the baby's room was located. He could see the mess left by the three perpetrators and their cavalier way of treating HIS daughter, never mind the improbable genetic mix up. From the moment he had received this staggering news, he had been processing it in his mind: if his genes were involved, Sheralyn was his natural offspring, end of story.

However, Sherlock, as usual, went into full discovery mode the moment they entered the room, flitting from bedside to cot to wardrobe, going down on all fours to examine something that caught his attention under the bed. Sure enough, he came up with a stray goose down feather and a tiny particle from a bubble plastic sheath.

"So, Mr. Holmes, what do these pieces of careless housekeeping tell you?"

"Why, Major Sholto, they're proof that the kidnappers came prepared to use drugs to secure the silence of anyone in the room, and that they were holding weapons they hadn't used before. The logical conclusion is that Sheralyn was very slightly smothered with one of the pillows on the bed to render her woozy without resorting to drugs: this means that the perpetrator isn't aware of her asthmatic tendencies, but is concerned about using medicinal substances on an infant. What did the local Crime Scene officer have to say about the evidence?"

"Nothing of value, their team checked for footprints and fingerprints, their report should be ready tomorrow."

Immediately, Sherlock whipped out his mobile phone and texted Lestrade, querying the local Serious Crimes squad's status, fearing that they would be sub-par for the truly Herculean task of locating his goddaughter.

"Sherlock, if one of the three was Mary, that would make the situation untenable", reminded John.

Sherlock turned to face Major Sholto and asked pointblank: "What is the exact setup of your CCTV? We shall need all available footage from the perimeter, the grounds and the interior of the house, as we need to ascertain exactly how they breached your security."

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, I have already asked that the footage from the last twenty-four hours be saved rather than deleted, as per usual, and copied into a hard copy, so it may be examined at your leisure."

"You are certainly a practical man, as well as gifted with common sense, Major. Now, I shall need ALS lighting to figure out their movements. John, could you close the curtains and bring up the special equipment which I left with Mr. Sholto's housekeeper? After I have finished examining this room, we shall need a very serious talk with Tessa. After all, she was left in charge of the child, given her nurse's qualifications."

Thereafter, Sherlock banished both Dr. Watson and Major Sholto to the corridor and went over every surface with the special UV equipment. His characteristic "Oh" of revelation came in about ten minutes, and Dr. Watson felt as if his guts were being tied up in knots.

John saw what Sherlock was looking at and thought that he was going to lose what little food he had in him. He quickly excused himself to the loo. "For being a doctor, you'd think he'd have a stronger stomach." Sherlock muttered to himself, "Especially after hanging out with me all these years."

Sherlock carefully looked at what he had found. There were so many clues in that small area. He grabbed his small magnifier and several other tools out of his case.

What had caught Sherlock's attention and provoked such a strong reaction in Dr. Watson was a tiny rhinestone in a very unusual shape: Mary used to wear a cream headband with just such rhinestones set in it in to form a serpentine pattern. Undoubtedly, it wasn't unique, but all the same lent more credence to John's assertion that she could have been personally involved in the baby's forcible removal.

Sherlock very carefully used a pair of tweezers to pick it up and place it in a small evidence bag. At this very grave juncture, the last thing he wanted or needed was the local police to gang up on him for contaminating the crime scene by carelessly handling the evidence. It was simply too important! 

Dr. Watson returned to stand by Major Sholto's side, visibly shaken and understandably pale: they were going through this whole nightmarish situation because the woman whom he had entrusted with his future happiness and well-being had decided to add to her list of criminal offences the abandonment of husband and child, and now seemed to have changed her mind. Not unusual in a woman, but highly unusual in a trained, cold-blooded former agent/assassin. 

After sweeping the room one more time, picking up a flake of paint on the floor near the window, and some brownish grains on the windowsill, all of which he first photographed with his mobile and then packed into separate evidence bags, Sherlock turned to the two men in the corridor: " Now, Major, could we interview Tessa while the CCTV material is being processed?"

Major Sholto led the way back down to the library, where they sat down in the comfortable overstuffed leather chairs, waiting for the sweetly gauche nurse to make her appearance. 

Although Sherlock would have dearly liked to terrorise her into giving him whatever information she held quickly, as he had done to the American ambassador's children's headmistress, it was not an option. 

She had first approached him as a client, and had to be treated with a certain level of careful handling. Nevertheless, he was determined to wring the last bit of information from her, one way or the other!  
Whatever approach he had been in the process of constructing in his mind, however, was nullified the moment she appeared: Tessa simply threw herself into his arms as he stood up, sobbing out in a strangled little voice: "Mr. Holmes, I'm so, so sorry! She's gone and it's all my fault!"

Dr. Watson jumped up at this declaration, but it was doubtful that he did so in order to scold or reprimand her in any way; he knew from long experience that Sherlock didn't handle strong emotions well, neither did he like being used as a shoulder to cry on. Assuming his most friendly ex-Army doctor manner, Dr. Watson laid his hands on Tessa's trembling shoulders, gently prized her away from Sherlock, who instantly took a step back, almost toppling backwards into the chair in the process, and turned her to face him: "Calm yourself, young lady. I'm the baby's father and I'm not accusing you of anything yet. You really need to keep your wits about you to give us a clear account of what happened." 

She dabbed at her tear-stained face with the little handkerchief she kept tucked up her left sleeve, allowed herself to be guided to a fourth overstuffed chair, took several deep breaths and was about to begin her story, when Sherlock burst out with: "It seems that you no longer need to date men online, since you have found a lover in the guise of your employer!"

Tessa blushed very prettily, but the sight was lost on the detective, who turned to face Major Sholto: "It seems, Major, that you have not been entirely forthcoming about the current situation in your household. Withholding any kind of evidence may be considered an obstruction of justice, and the stakes are too high for me to turn a blind eye!"

To his credit, the heavily disfigured man sat up straight in his chair and declared "Yes, Mr. Holmes, it's true, for the first time after many years, it was the presence of Sheralyn under my roof, and Tessa's care of her charge which re-awakened feelings I had thought lay dormant. Do my personal dealings with my staff have anything to do with your ongoing investigation?"

"That remains to be seen, Major. Now, young lady, tell us what happened in your own fashion. I know that you have a quite good eye for detail, so be as specific as possible!", thus effectively barring Dr. Watson from commenting on the latest revelation.

The young nurse took another deep breath and launched into her account. She had given Sheralyn her bottle for the night, burped her for about five minutes, walking up and down the room to help the baby get accustomed to moving during the process, had then laid her down in her cot, set up the intercom which hung on the left postern of the cot, left the night lamp on and set Sheralyn's Solar System mobile in motion with its soothing Adagio from Holst's Saturn to lull the baby to sleep. Once she had seen with her own eyes the baby drift off to sleep, she had switched off the music, leaving both the intercom and the night light on. She had then gone down to the kitchen to make some tea, and was down to the last sip, when she noticed that the intercom didn't transmit the baby's regular breathing, as it should. She had quickly gone upstairs to find out the reason why, and had been confronted with an empty cot. Thereupon, she had raised the alarm.

"As much as I like you as a person and former client, my friend and colleague here, would say you are hiding something. He was able to see three people escaping through the bedroom window, two of whom were using Russian swear words. So, you see, your story has discrepancies with Dr. Watson's version that are simply not congruent. What were you actually doing after you put your charge in her cot?"

Once again, Tessa blushed scarlet and avoided meeting his eye.

"I...I,I...Sorry Dr. Watson. I did not take her or directly help, but I could have prevented it. I had made tea and was in the process of bringing to James. I left the monitor in the kitchen. I realized that around the same time that Dr. Watson discovered the break-in. Also, that stone from the floor may not belong to Sheralyn's mother." Tessa had seen John's face when they had gathered in the library. "It belongs to a friend of mine possibly. We went out to the pub a couple of nights ago. I let slip that I was watching a beautiful infant after we had a little too much to drink. I excused myself to the loo and as I was coming back, I heard her talking with a couple of guys about the baby. I did not catch the date but guessed it would be soon. They had mentioned knowing the mother but did not know where she was at, and that they knew the father and wanted to get the baby back to him. They mentioned heading to Calais 2 days after the job was done. I made my presence known after that. The guys left and my friend talked with me about what they were going to do without telling me the date. She showed me the stone that was to be left as a clue. Again, I am sorry." Tessa burst into tears after that.

"Yes, you very well could have prevented it. This is the second time you have let slip something regarding my dear friend John. If you remotely loved your boss in any way at all, you would do well to keep matters of this place in this place. If Major Sholto will still have you, you would be most fortunate. How long have you known this friend, what is her name and what does she look like? And the guys, can you tell me what they looked like?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"She has dark hair and a natural tan. She has an Irish brogue. We have been friends for about 3 months. Her name is Janine. We met online through a group meet up page. We finally met for the first time at the pub." Sherlock and John both looked at her with shock. They knew who Janine was. "The guys were fair skinned, dark hair. One had a slightly muscular build similar to someone that was in the military. I did not get their names."

"Now I have a very important phone call to make." Sherlock was still upset. He got up and stormed off while calling his brother. "I need to have the port in Calais closed and monitored. Sheralyn's kidnappers were heading that way. They are supposed to be arriving in the next 2 days. Mary may not be involved, but some of the others could be including Janine."

"Define 'some of the others', Sherlock! Some of us have rather important work to conduct while you go gallivanting around the globe!" 

"Oh, so it's perfectly OK for me to 'go gallivanting' as you so charmingly put it, Mycroft, when it is in the service of the Crown but not when I need to get my goddaughter back from whoever has her at this moment. Except for the rest of her rather rare biological buildup, the baby also suffers from asthma, which we don't know how she developed. In the hands of her abductors, she might simply suffocate and die! Not to mention that it was partly your fault that she was abducted in the first place: the people you sent to guard Major Sholto's property were clearly inadequate for the job. As for Mr. Sorge, he is the one I shall be sending over to France in the company of John, since I have to remain here for the time being. Have your assistant prepare adequate documentation for both." 

"Actually, that's a relief, Sherlock, Monsieur Bajollet is a personal friend of mine, I wouldn't want you to deduce him to a fit of Gallic anger with your oh-so-tactful remarks!'" 

"Oh, Mycroft, the DGSE is your remit, I'm just a lowly consulting detective in search of evidence. And in this case, I'm more likely to head for Ireland than for the land of our mistrusted allies. Anyway, all foreign espionage falls under your control as a minor functionary of the government." 

He heard an outraged 'Sherlock...' before he terminated the call. 

Turning round, he found Dr. Watson at his side: "Why aren't you coming?" 

"Because I think it's the proverbial red herring. We must interrogate Tessa again, watch the CCTV footage and ascertain the depth of her involvement in this, not to mention her affair with your previous commanding officer and her encounter with Janine. You know my feelings about the latter, she is as beautiful as she is intelligent, she is perceptive and cunning, an opportunistic pathogen on burned skin, if you like." 

"And you suspect everyone and anyone at this stage. Please, don't get manic about it, Sherlock, you know how your mind works better than I do, but it can still betray you. Instinct might work better in this case." 

"You know my methods, John, I cannot work without sufficient input, data, hard evidence. Leaps of logic are permissible, leaps of the imagination I shall leave to your good self and any other writer of fiction."  
"Oi, did you just call my blog a work of fiction?"

"Look at it from my point of view: what are the probabilities that fair-haired Mary would buy the same cream headband with those clear rhinestones as dark-curled Janine? How can you build on such a quicksand as women's whims? Their most important decisions may depend on the right shade of lipstick or a curling tongs!"

"So, you’re saying that Mary may still be in on the game! My assassin of a wife is trying to reclaim my attention first by leaving and then by abducting our daughter!"

"Injured feelings have no place here, John, let's go back to do what we originally set out to do, which is find out everything about how the abduction succeeded." Sherlock squared his shoulders, took a deep, calming breath and strode into the library again, closely followed by Dr. Watson. 

They found the Major sitting side by side with Tessa on the large Chesterfield sofa which was in front of the large French windows. They appeared to be holding hands. Tessa self-consciously removed hers and folded them primly on her lap. 

"I would like both of you to sit in these two chairs," Sherlock said, pointing, "because I need your faces to be clearly lit and not shaded by the sunlight from outside as you answer my questions." 

When they had taken their places as indicated, he turned to the ex-Major first: "When were you first alerted to the abduction of the baby?"

"It was Watson himself who raised the alarm, thereby alerting me, as well. I was in my office, Tessa had just brought in tea, we were kissing when I heard the commotion outside." 

"When you so very kindly offered to provide the baby with a temporary home until the situation was resolved, was that your own idea? Or did it come from Tessa, and therefore from her acquaintance at the pub? Now, think, Major, this may be important!" 

"You know, Mr. Holmes, I can't remember. Watson... sorry, John here, had texted that his wife had disappeared, that you had had some problems which he couldn't elaborate on, and that he and you were juggling daily life with a baby not yet six months old and a host of other troubles. I can tell you that I was sitting in here the evening before I decided to visit you in London, enjoying my one glass of malt whisky of the day, as per doctor's orders, reading the latest issue of Jane's, when Tessa brought in my evening pills, which I usually take with a glass of water before retiring for the night. We had certainly discussed the situation, and both deplored the fact that you and John had so much to do while we were practically mired in our daily routines."

Sherlock swept both of them in his very thorough deduction mode, but was prevented from saying anything further by a ping alerting him to a text message on his mobile; he had left it beside him for easy access, so he grabbed it to read Mycroft's latest addition to their tale of woes: "Beaver apprised of next destination, awaits your orders, Three Continents unable to go to France due to a pending warrant for his arrest for sexually molesting a sixteen-year old during a day trip to Boulogne in 1987. Your presence required, shall inform Head of DGSE of your visit, try not to start our first war with France since Napoleon surrendered in 1815."

Sherlock swiped the screen, emitting a noise between a huff of irritation and a strangled laugh. But first things first, he needed to put the events of the abduction in order and watch the CCTV footage. Anyway, he had been to Paris, in his two-year-long chase of Moriarty's web of activities, and he had helped the local police recover the portrait of Mme Rimsky-Korsakov stolen from the Musee d'Orsay by one of Moriarty's underlings for a wealthy admirer of the Russian composer's work. Still, it was one thing to deal with the Quai des Orfeuvres, a kind of frenchified NSY, and quite another to get involved with the French secret services. Not good at all!

Phrase by torturous phrase, Sherlock elicited the story from all three participants. After Tessa had fed and burped the baby, she had put Sheralyn in her cot, left the night light on and taken the intercom with her to the kitchen, where she had proceeded to make tea. With both hands holding the tea tray, she had inadvertently not put the intercom in the pocket of her jacket when she had gone in to Major Sholto. Dr. Watson had coincidentally gone upstairs to use the en-suite bathroom and check up on the baby, when he became witness to the three shadowy figures leaving through the bedroom window, carrying a hold-all in a two-handed grip and using the Russian or Ukrainian swear words he had heard. Rushing to the empty cot, he had then proceeded to raise the alarm, as the three figures hared off into the distance. They had used a retractable aerial ladder, which was nowhere to be found, but which explained the chipped paint Sherlock had found earlier, since they had secured it to the windowsill. Also, the grains of loamy earth could be explained by the presence of a flowerbed right underneath, in their path to the baby. So far, so bad, but he also needed to see the CCTV footage. 

Fortunately, just as the pathetic little voice of Tessa faded after another "I'm so very sorry, Dr. Watson," which raised Sherlock's levels of irked reaction and anger, but before he could work himself up to give her one of his scathing retorts, the female security worker came in and handed Major Sholto a mini DVD "The security footage, as you requested, sir."

In times past, Sherlock would have unceremoniously grabbed it out of his host's hands and ran to the nearest available projecting equipment. Now, especially after the latest news, he simply sat up straight and gestured for the Major to get on with it. 

The major got up, went to the library shelves next to the French windows, pushed a button to open a large cabinet that held a state-of-the-art television set, turned on its DVD drive, inserted the mini disc and the screen came to life. 

Sherlock found himself sitting at the edge of his chair as he watched the material. Strangely enough, Dr. Watson next to him, seemed as if he was trying to melt into the stuffing of h I s chair. 

The whole sequence of the abduction ran for about five minutes. The three hooded figures came into view, fumbled with the pillow, the shortest of the three picked up the baby, while the others held the carry-all open, they deposited the baby in it, the shortest one grabbed something off the night-table, and then they were gone. 

"She picked up the inhaler for the baby, somehow she knows!" 

"Yes, Sherlock, Mary knows, but how can she, unless your brother's service is not leaking like a sieve?" replied a very subdued, very forlorn, very downhearted Dr. Watson. 

"Occam's Razor, John! He must have got the information to her himself!"

In one way, Sherlock was relieved to find that he wouldn't have to hunt for a whole nest of moles in his brother's organisation, in quite another way he felt (quaint, how a baby in your life produces emotions you didn't know you had!) betrayed. In how many pies did Mycroft have a finger? He suspected he wouldn't like the answer at all when he eventually found out. 

Now, more than ever, he knew that he had to break into Mycroft's little vault. The question remained as to when he would be able to do so. In the matter of a much smaller betrayal, he turned to his host, excused himself and dragged Dr. Watson up by the hand. 

"There's something I must verify in the garden." 

With that, he opened the French windows and stepped outside, still keeping a firm hold on Dr. Watson's wrist.

"You don't have to drag me around like that, most of the time I come willingly." 

'Yes, when you don't take it into your head to head-butt or shoot someone first! What's all this about?" Sherlock showed John the last message from his brother. 

"Simone lodged a complaint? But I made sure to check her identity card, because she looked older with all that make-up. And your brother has a nasty sense of humour: Three Continents, indeed!" 

"Mycroft has probably deleted his sense of humour as I delete useless data, John. The point is, you cannot go to France, if the need arises. What we both agree on is that that shorter figure was Mary, not Janine. In the first place, Janine is almost a head taller than Mary..." "...and in the second, I would recognise her hand movements anywhere, under any cover. She has very expressive hands, does my assassin wife!" 

"I've seen everything I need to see. I must get back to London. Come with if you would like but do hurry." Sherlock said with a flurry with the last bit directed at John. He got up and gathered his stuff heading towards the front door not bothering to check if John was following. John followed suit as he usually did forgetting to grab anything he packed. He just wanted his daughter back.

Sherlock jumped into the SUV sliding over to allow room for John to get in. He asked the driver to get them to London as quickly as possible. Sherlock was determined to get to his meeting at the pub. He knew the establishment was one of the many in the city that had a later closing call than most for which he was thankful as the trip back to London would not likely be much shorter than 4 hours.

The one thing that could still be said in Mycroft's favour was that his underlings were reliable until proven otherwise! With their faithful shadow following them into the SUV, Sherlock set about re-ordering his thoughts in order to prioritise their activities before they reached London! John could not come with him to France because of his *past*, Mary and Mycroft were involved up to a point which he planned to unravel once Angelo's friend had honed his skills in burgling an old-fashioned safe, like the one Mycroft kept in his office, so he sent a text to Angelo, to let him know that the appointment would take place the next day, as it was the two friends' habitual meeting time for darts and a pint. The pub in Islington was appropriately named "Angelic", but the shallowness of the humour of the situation refused to register with him at the moment: Mary and parties unknown; although he suspected, not to Mycroft, had abducted Sheralyn, and the first order of business was to get the baby back!

Fortunately for Sherlock, John was still so upset about the whole paternity issue and the glaringly obvious participation of Mary in Sheralyn's abduction, that the good doctor didn't interrupt Sherlock's train of thought: for this case he had abandoned both deductive and inductive reasoning in favour of, how appropriate, he thought, abductive reasoning! 

He was trying to piece together a train of events by selecting a cogent set of preconditions involving Mycroft, Mary and the Moriarty brother to come to the conclusion, although he admitted to himself that it wasn't a unique one, that Mary had felt threatened, abandoned home and hearth without even taking necessary personal items except her Coutts' safe-deposit box key, and once she had discovered what he himself and her husband had done to protect Sheralyn, she had used her underworld connections, without excluding the possibility of contacting Mycroft in one way or another, to find and recover her daughter before fleeing Heaven knew what new danger by going to France! Drat it, he would have to conduct the whole DGSE with only the 'help' of Mycroft's agent! 

When they arrived at Baker Street , Sherlock was once again struck by how quiet it seemed now that the baby was not there. 

Once they had divested themselves of their suit jacket and summer Barbour respectively, more out of force of habit than anything else, Sherlock asked: "Shall I put the kettle on?" only to be met by a pair of blue eyes that seemed stormy and dagger-like in their intensity: "No, I'd rather you took down your precious Macallan single malt and two crystal tumblers!"

"John, I have arranged to meet Angelo and his friend tomorrow evening at their usual haunt, and you know that I cannot carry my drink as well as you do!" 

"Yeah, the stag night proved pretty conclusively that you are a lightweight in such matters, but right now I need my best friend 'and companion', as you so elegantly phrase it each time during introductions, to join me in some quality whisky-drinking! I only have a Mind Cottage, and now it's being hit by a tsunami of information, so get the bloody tumblers, or we can take turns drinking from the bottle itself. Your choice, genius!"

"All right, all right, I shall get everything, you sit in your chair and relax!"

"Who would have thought Sheralyn would be such an oddity of nature, or that my beloved wife of a year would first dump our child without a word and then abduct her for her own purposes! You think you can manipulate people; well, let me tell you, Mary has out-manipulated both of us!"

"John, your propensity for stating the obvious will never cease to grate on my thoughts! Here's your tumbler, full to the brim, cease and desist, I beg of you!" Sherlock replied, handing Dr. Watson what must have been one third of a bottle, or 220 ml of undiluted spirits. 

For himself, he had poured two-fingers' worth of the amber liquid, then added some ice cubes to dilute it without ruining the flavour. The last thing he needed at this point was to get drunk alongside John. 

With a sense of alarm, he saw his friend down a good portion of the fiery substance, after the perfunctory toast: To success! He himself nursed his drink, replenished John's as requested, but tried to keep as sober as possible under the circumstances. 

Eventually, Dr. Watson fell asleep in his chair. Sherlock fetched the Afghan (how apposite) throw from the couch, threw it over his snoring friend, and after a short visit to the bathroom, he went to his room, undressed and tried to sleep. 

Next morning, a clearly overhung Dr. Watson woke to the smell of frying bacon and eggs. Sherlock, who abhorred cooking in all its forms, but rationalised it as just another form of chemical reactions taking place, was cooking breakfast. By his plate, the good doctor found two painkillers and a glass of a milky substance; without a second thought as to possible poisoning attempts by Sherlock, he downed the pills with what appeared to be coconut milk. 

"Best hangover relief I have tried. Sorry I couldn't do a full breakfast, but I didn't think your stomach would bear it, just bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade. That Fortnum & Mason Mrs. Robinson keeps sending us assorted ones."

"Thanks, Sherlock, in truth I don't know if I can handle even this much!" And with that, Dr. Watson picked up his fork. 

Sherlock contented himself with several slices of toasted bread spread with a variety of jams, finely, medium-cut and rough-cut marmalade, savouring each bite, as if to catalogue the tastes in his mind. 

That afternoon, under a slight drizzle, Sherlock set out to meet Angelo's friend in Islington. Since he abhorred the Tube because it sometimes caused him to suffer a sensory overload, and since it was only about half an hour on foot, he decided to borrow John's rain-proof summer Barbour, although it was short for his arms, buttoned it up and set off. He first turned right into York Street, then into Gloucester Place, he followed the Marylebone Road until it turned into Pentonville Road, took a right turn into Nelson Terrace, at its end he turned right into Colebrook Row and finally turned left into Charlton Place, to find himself outside a traditional English pub. He took a deep, calming breath, and entered, moving around the seated customers until he sidled up to Angelo and his friend, both of whom had rolled up their sleeves and were holding their respective darts in their hands:"Evening, the drinks are on me, naturally!"

"Ah, Mr. 'Olmes, you do know 'ow to make friends an' influence people!" chuckled the other man. 

"Obviously, Mr. ...Smith," and Sherlock lingered on the word until the other man fingered his collar in discomfort, "I shall need your rather specific expertise on Stanmore safes, but there have been developments beyond my control which will make it impossible for me to receive your illuminating instructions until your next meeting with my good friend Angelo here, at the least. Could we postpone the safe-cracking lessons until I have dealt with the other matter?"

"Well, Mr. 'Olmes, it's your own decision, but since you made it to our appointment, why don't we retire to the manager's office, and I shall acquaint you with the basics?"

"I could never resist a bet, Mr. Smith..." there was that lingering tone again:" What do you say, I pay for the drinks this evening, but you stand a general round if I crack it in the first three attempts?"

"Done, Mr. 'Olmes! No one has cracked a Stanmore in three attempts, as I live and breathe!"  
It was pure technical drudgery for Sherlock, but he followed the cracksman to the suspiciously deserted manager's office, leaving Angelo to play shove ha' penny with a plainly bored bartender.

The safe, gleaming dully at them, could have been in the same production line as the one in Mycroft's office! Rubbing his hands together gleefully, Sherlock followed the expert's advice to the letter. His long, graceful fingers seemed made for the job. Twiddling the knobs, listening to the gears whir and settle was fascinating work, so much so, that he got quite carried away and heard them clicking and twisted the handle of the safe, he wasn't even aware of what had just happened, until he opened the safe's door, turned round, and saw Mr. Smith looking at him as if he had grown snakes in his hair!

"Well, what do you think, Mr. Smith?" "I think, Mr. 'Olmes that the Bill should thank their lucky stars you're on their side! And don't worry about our bet; I'm a man of my word!"

"Still, Mr. Smith, I wouldn't like to see such a sporting tutor lose out of our acquaintance! Here's a hundred to cover your general round, and not a word to anyone, not even Angelo! Understood?"

"Yeah, no word to anyone, my lips are sealed," smiled the amazed cracksman, and they both returned to the taproot of the pub. With a nod at Angelo, Sherlock took leave of the two friends. He now had to return to Baker Street, check up on his passport, the one he had used in the two years hunting down all of Moriarty's associates, hide it in the double lining of his carry-on, finalise arrangements with his suspect of a brother, and book the trip to Paris, where he had no homeless network, but a much more abundant human resources network in the clochards, if he played his cards right.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than a thousand hits! Thank you so much for your patience in following this story with its basic plotline planned but no end in sight yet ;-)

First things first, he collected his suits from the dry-cleaner's on Marylebone Rd, remembered to pop into Waitrose for bare necessities, like milk, tea, coffee, sliced bread and some ready-made microwave meals for John, then, once again weighed down with shopping, he made his way to the flat: the knocker had been straightened once again, but this time, he didn't mind, he even welcomed the intrusion.  
"Brother dear, how nice of you to drop in just as I was about to text you! I shall need a full debriefing before my flight to Paris tomorrow, and you're just the man for the job!"

"That's all fine and well Sherlock, but there are more pressing matters to deal with at this point. I have it on good authority that if you want the contents of the safety deposit box, you will have to do it tomorrow. The bank has put a temporary moratorium on access to all of them until 16:00 tomorrow afternoon. I happen to be acquaintances with the bank president and that particular branch manager. I was able to pull a few strings to make it all happen. Here are the papers you will need." He stated as he handed over a file. "Whatever content is in that box was attempted access a few hours ago. Extra security has been added to make sure nothing happens before you arrive tomorrow. I recommend a disguise for you and the look-a-like as an added precaution. Once that task is completed I will be more than willing to debrief you before your flight. Good evening brother dear." Mycroft did not wait for a response from Sherlock. He got up and left the flat.

Sherlock sat down in his chair and looked over the contents of the file. The first sheet appeared to be similar to a court order but different than normal.

British Secret Services  
Project: Foxtrot Moonglow 105  
Priority Crucial

> RE: Safety Deposit Box Number 2358B
> 
> Access to above mentioned box is to be given to Ms. A. Ramage and her associate Mr. S. Holmes by order of Rt. Hon. D. Cameron and Her Majesty The Queen. Any questions can be directed to Mr. M Holmes, British Security Services.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Hon. K. Jones ESQ.

He knew the judge from back in his drug binging days. Mycroft had definitely pulled a few strings. He looked through a few more sheets of paper. Most were meant to assist him with tomorrow's task at the bank but one was rather interesting.

British Secret Services Project: Foxtrot Moonglow 105 Priority Crucial 

> RE: Operative Abbigail Grace Ramage Aarons (AKA Abbigail Grace Ramage, Abbigail Grace Renee Anderson, Amanda Gwen Renee Andersdatter, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, Mary Elizabeth Watson)
> 
> Brolly,
> 
> Little Lamb seen with abductors near Widnes & Runcon. All ports in the UK have been secured as a precaution. All airports have been put on alert status Orange 5. Extra patrols along the western coast for the next 3 days to be continued as necessary beyond that. ID of Little Lamb confirmed as abductors disappeared into the crowds. Awaiting images from local CCTV to see if identities can be confirmed for any of the abductors. Identification given Priority Ultra. Will send notice once arrived.
> 
> ~ Church Secretary.

She had been spotted. Sherlock was kind of surprised that Mary would have had Sheralyn exposed like that. It gave him something to think about as he prepared for tomorrow. He quickly sent off a text to DS Pierce. "Bank tomorrow morning. Arrive at NSY by 08:00. Will have everything you need. ~SH"

As Sherlock finished texting DS Pierce, he took a long, hard look at the map blue-tacked (baby in the flat!) on the wall! Something didn't seem right! Why would Mary be bringing her unique genetic specimen of a daughter and his god-daughter to boot, near Liverpool! With one Moriarty brother safely under lock and key, and the other dead, since he couldn't fault the evidence of his own eyes, there remained only Janine, who could provide Mary with a safe haven in Ireland, easy to reach from Liverpool, never mind all the alerts his brother had at once put in place: a speedboat or any kind of small boat, even the shrimping kind, would be enough to get past any observation.

No, it had to be a piece deliberately planted disinformation by the mole in Mycroft's office. After last night's practice, his fingertips fairly itched to have a go at Mycroft's Stanmore safe. By now, he knew he couldn't fully trust his brother's resources, much less his brother's motives. In the first place, it was entirely the wrong direction for fleeing to France, she would have to cross all of England in order to reach the Norfolk or Kentish coast, from thence she could access both France and the Netherlands, again using one of the small craft so beloved of the Norfolk and Kentish smugglers, running anything from contraband cigarettes and spirits to East European teenage girls past the noses of the Revenooers , the local term for both Coast Guard and Customs and Excise officers.

And if Mary had Eastern European connections, given the evidence they had uncovered at Major Sholto's house and John's personal account of the attack, then it made eminently good sense for Mary and her accomplices to run towards the North sea and not the Irish sea.

On his return to the flats, he found, much to his relief (ugh, why did he have to grow sentimental in middle-age? It was a very hard learning curve!) that Dr Watson had recovered enough to be sitting at his laptop and typing something or other on it.

"Good, you're your normal self,"..." more or less." as he saw the good doctor get up from the chair by grabbing onto its back and stumbling a bit.

"What do you want this time, Sherlock?"

"I know for a fact that my brother has a luncheon appointment at the Sheridan with the Home Secretary and the Minister for Foreign Affairs. Can you distract Anthea using your usual charm and wiles from coming into my brother's office for about ten minutes?"

"I can try, but from our very first meeting, the lady has shown her complete lack of interest in my so-called charms, what new strategy can I deploy?"

"The fair sex has always been your specialty, dear doctor! Think up something on the way there!”

"Wait, wait, you mean you are going to break into your brother's office the same way you thought you were breaking into Magnussen's? May I remind you that that attempt failed rather spectacularly?"  
"Certainly not! We shall walk in there, after all, he has summoned us often enough! I only need you to distract her so that I may break into his safe!"

"Oh, good Heaven's, what for?"

"Because I believe he knows much more about Mary than he lets on, and her file must be locked in there, that's why! Now, are you coming?"

"If we get caught this time, there will be no easy way out, like a nice shot! He'll probably send us to Parkhurst or Pentonville, if we're lucky and he does not declare us nutters and sent to Broadmoor for life!"

"Well, we have shared the same flats, we shall share the same prison cell!"

"I do hope you're not a snorer, because that evening, after Irene gave you that drug and I had to lie by you to make sure you were kept in a position precluding your choking on your vomit, which, incidentally you didn't, vomit, I mean, you snored!"

"I was drugged, now, come along, we have very little time to accomplish our task. If I find that Mary has ever been in his employ, I may do something monstrous, like Mummy!"

From Baker Street they cut right through Hyde Park, to reach St. James Park and then, just before reaching the Houses of Parliament, they took a left turn, into Charles Street where Mycroft had his minor government official offices. Although they could have taken the Tube, they didn't, since Sherlock was fighting his claustrophobia and John needed plenty of fresh air to clear any remaining alcoholic fumes from his head. 

Right before turning into Charles Street, Sherlock pulled John up short. 

"You do realise that we have to avoid ever single CCTV on this stretch? We shall walk Indian file, and you will imitate my steps exactly. After we have reached the entrance, it won't matter anymore, because you will turn on all your charm, I repeat ALL, and keep Anthe in the outer office. She will naturally show us into Mycroft's office first, we shall make ourselves comfortable, as if waiting for his return, but once she exits to go for tea and biscuits, you will follow her and keep her occupied for at least ten minutes!" 

"Shall we synchronise our watches, too?" 

"Very droll, John Hamish Watson! I may have to remind you of the remark if we are caught in the act! There's a wall clock behind Anthea, and a world clock on the wall facing the Customs and Excise HQ. Use your eyes."

"And how shall I warn you, if, by bad luck, Mycroft returns early?"

"It's scallops in champagne sauce followed by rack of lamb and chocolate meringue day at the Sheridan, John! Mycroft loves chocolate meringues; he can eat them by the half-dozen. No fears on that score! What we shall have to do upon first entering his office is move the sofa and the visitors' chairs around, so we can confuse the floor sensors a little bit as to the distribution of weight, and, of course, send his CCTV on a loop, so that it seems I am peacefully sitting waiting for him. We shall use my iPhone for that, don't worry!" 

"One last question: if he catches you in the act, or even if he realises what you have done after we have left, are we likely to be denied the debriefing and the information needed for the French part of this escapade?" 

"Mycroft is not vindictive; he's reliable and can be kind. No, he will not cut off all avenues of information. But if he catches me in the act, and you hear some strange noises coming from the office don't rush to my assistance! He has always believed in Big Brother prerogatives, so I shall be duly ...corrected for daring to bait him in his lair! In that case, don't interfere at all, simply cross your fingers that I shall be able to walk and sit reasonably well! And once we reach Baker Street an ice pack and some Arnica cream wouldn't go amiss! But it shan't happen. He loves those meringues too much to..."

"Spank you like a naughty toddler, you mean?" There was a definite wicked gleam in the good doctor's eyes! 

Sherlock moved his hands as if he were swatting an insistent fly: "Right, now you follow me and don't put a foot wrong, it's much easier than dancing!"

But Dr Watson found the prospect too amusing: "You are stronger than him; you proved that during the incident at our flat when he had Anderson snooping around!"

"It's a matter of my having no moral compass, according to Mycroft! I was summoned to the Diogenes after the Baskerville case, you know, for swiping his ultra-high security card, no matter how helpful he proved during the case, and I escaped another '.correction' at home only because I unlocked Irene's phone! Now, shall we proceed before the time IS really over?"  
Dr Watson, ever the loyal helpmeet, sighed and stepped behind Sherlock, as the latter began what seemed to be an elaborate game of Hopscotch.

When Anthea had introduced them in Mycroft's office and started to close the door behind her, Dr Watson began to get up from his chair to follow her out, but a steel-like grip on his left wrist made him look up at Sherlock's very focused, very intense and somewhat perplexed countenance.

"What's the matter?"

"My dear brother seems to have the same misgivings as myself concerning the mole in his organisation, so he has taken Mary's folder out. It's lying here, on the top of his file cabinet." “But that file says..."

"Oh, that! Mycroft loves encryption codes, the first one he taught me was the Ancient Greek skytale one, but he is enamoured of the Caesar code: two great leaders of men, my brother and dear old Caius Julius. I shall photograph every document in there, but first, close the curtains and let's see if he has left an invisible layer of ultraviolet substance over it, to check up on its having been tampered with."

While Dr Watson went to darken the room, Sherlock used his mini set of CDS lighting to scan the surface of the file: Of course Mycroft had taken that extra precaution!

Motioning Dr Watson to open the curtains again and turn on the lights, he removed a pair of unusually thin plastic gloves, much finer than the ones he usually wore at crime scenes, from his left breast pocket, together with a pair of tweezers. He put on the gloves, and then began to extract every page from the file, photograph it and lay it face-down on the desk. Once he had finished, he righted the little pile of documents, used the tweezers to lift one corner of the file, and slipped them inside. Hopefully, the minute change in the consistency of the dust would be put down to the air conditioning by his brother. However, he was fully aware that this may not be the only file, that there was more evidence in the vaults of what passed as MI5 nowadays! The firm had changed so many designations, two in his own lifetime, after all.

And so it came to happen that Anthea brought them their tea and biscuits, the last chocolate digestive half-way to Sherlock's mouth, when Mycroft finally made his appearance.

"What are you two doing here? I fully expected you'd be in preparation mode for your visit to the bank tomorrow!"

"Sorry to interfere with your tight schedule, brother dear, but I need you to make sure that your practically next-door neighbours won't let even a tiny fishing smack or speedboat leave from the entire East Anglia coast, up to Norfolk. The message about the Liverpool sighting is bogus"

"And you deduced that how, with your superior intellect?"

"Mycroft, please do as I ask, for the baby's sake, if for nobody else's."

That sentence sent a peculiar chill down Dr Watson's spine.

"Mycroft, please, I can deal with your insults on my mental acuity or any other issue you may think of during my absence, but right now, you should alert the Customs and Excise to be on the lookout for a speedboat of any kind, not barring fast shrimping and fishing trawlers, from leaving the coast from Hastings up to Hull, because Mary, your trusted contract killer, has abducted her daughter and is running towards the remnants of dear Jim's associates: you do remember that I took out members of the Corsican Mafia associated with Moriarty, but, obviously, I couldn't stay to destroy a centuries' long-lasting institution, otherwise I would never have come back!"

"I grant you the latter, but I see no obvious connection between the head of the Corsicans in mainland France and the Eastern Europe connections Mary used to remove the baby from its sheltered haven." 

"Are you becoming a goldfish in middle-age, by any chance, brother dear? Those two were simply guns for hire, Mary retrieved funds, which I shall find about tomorrow, during my visit to the bank in the company of the delightful DS Pierce, and paid them to do a job, which they accomplished to her satisfaction. If Janine and the Irish connection are not complete red herrings, then those two are already dead, disposed of by that charming psychopath my blindness let John marry. They are not of concern to us, except to the local police, when they find their bodies. If they call in for the Met's help, there's a very strong probability that DI Lestrade will be tasked with the investigation, in which case, I shall provide him with enough background information to get their deaths solved: it's called killing two birds with one stone: Mary will be forever more a fugitive killer as far as British justice is concerned, so if we manage to retrieve Sheralyn, Mary will find it pretty difficult to enter the country again, unless you actively help her, and then we shall know that you put other concerns before family once and for all, won't we, John?"

The increasingly bewildered Dr Watson had been trying to keep up with the machine-gun delivery of his best friend's tirade, so he nodded gravely, still digesting the nuggets of information it included. 

Mycroft looked decidedly uncomfortable, which was a bonus, since it strengthened Sherlock's reasoning, but it also did not bode well for the immediate future: had Mary enlisted Janine's help in getting the baby out of the country, and if so, why head for mainland Europe?

The only thing Dr Watson knew about Sherlock's stint in France was taking apart the large drugs operation headed by Baron Maupertuis, which had its base somewhere in the Balkans, where Sherlock had finally been run to ground and brought in for some vigorous "interrogation" until Mycroft had bailed him out personally. Now, the baron was languishing in prison, his smuggling ring ostensibly destroyed. Had Sherlock kept any of "the good stuff" for himself? Suddenly, the doctor realised that not only his wife, but also his best friend were leading double lives and keeping secrets from him, apparently for his own good. If Sheralyn were not involved, he would gladly punch Sherlock in the face right there, in Mycroft's office, and damn the consequences! But he couldn't! He needed both eccentric geniuses to get his daughter back home to Baker Street, after that, he made a mental note to have a talk with Sherlock: they had promised not to tell each other anymore lies, hadn't they?

"Sherlock, I shall accede to your demands, but you must keep your appointment at the bank tomorrow. It's of the utmost importance!"

"Rest assured, Mycroft, I know where my duty lies! Do you?" And with that Parthian shot, Sherlock swept out of his brother's office, leaving Dr Watson to catch up as fast as his shorter legs would allow him, after a very perfunctory goodbye.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock hailed a cab back to Baker Street. Leaving John to pay for the cab again, he walked up to the door noticing something was off. Scuff where a kick plate would go, nail varnish on the key hole, knocker turned the other way, obvious crowbar marks on the hinge side of the door, and the mail slot was taped shut. "John, I do believe we have guests upstairs. Do be prepared."

Sherlock quietly opened the door and surveyed the ground floor. White milky substance on the stairs, spit on the wall, cooing baby sounds from upstairs. Sherlock motioned John to follow quietly taking each step the exact same way he did. Sherlock carefully avoided the squeaky step as he went up the 17 steps. He motioned John to go in through the kitchen door as he went in through the sitting room door. "Hello Red Beard and Three Continents. We picked Little Lamb up in Widnes & Runcon. The 2 men and the lady with her were apprehended without incident. Everything should be resolved now."

"No you didn't, try again. Don’t try to trick me. You know who I am. It won't work." Sherlock replied tetchily clicking the k. "The nail varnish and duct tape among many other things give it away. It was sloppy at best. So do hurry and I might even give you a head start before you're turned over Benedict Arnold."

"I was paid off by Scorpion nearly 2 years after the rooftop incident. Large sums of various amounts. He didn't reveal himself until a few months before all of this happened. He said that there was going to be a new job coming up involving the disappearance of AGRA. He didn't tell me who or what AGRA was or anything about it at that point. Then 5 weeks ago he got in contact stating that all plans were go for AGRA. I still didn't know the specific details just that I needed to fake seeing 2 males, a female, & a very young child in Widnes. I was then to return here with the said young child telling you what I said as you entered."

"How convenient of you to leave out the information that he wanted from you."

"I was just supposed to be a quiet mole in the office. If he told me any plans, I was to tell him if there was any conflict with the plan. Nothing more, nothing less. And that was not even requested right away. He said he wanted to provide a financial cushion before he requested any information and that more money would come even after information was requested."

"The pay must have been good to sell your allegiance to Queen and Country. If you're lucky, MI-6 will torture you for a bit then let you go. If not, well Goodnight Vienna. I do suggest that you wait here. Don't try anything especially since you're holding a baby that is obviously not Little Lamb. The hair color is all wrong and so is her size. It's obvious that the child your holding is nearly 12 months old. It's clear that the child weighs well over a stone by nearly 7 pounds. Did you really think we would be that stupid to accept that as Little Lamb." Sherlock scoffed. "Queen Bee won't be happy at all. I will be polite enough, I suppose. Do have a seat. John, fetch the rope from the last time we had a break in. And the duct tape as well."

A few minutes later that woman was bound to the chair Sherlock had offered and John was holding the young child. "Assistance will be here shortly to take care of her. I need to prepare for tomorrow."

The first thing Sherlock needed to do was get Mr Sorge, Mycroft's agent, to deal with the intruders, since DI Lestrade could in no way become involved in a clandestine operation. Then, he turned on John: "Are your thoughts made up of mental farts, just so I know? We cannot have Child Services getting officially involved, cancel that call any way your goldfish mind is capable of. Both the baby girl and her abductor need to be handled by the British Security Services, and I have already texted our friendly agent to take care of them. Once they are in their custody, we can concentrate on much more important matters at hand!"

With that haughty declaration, he took Dr Watson in the kitchen alcove: "I have already alerted our friendly young agent to take care of things here, you should focus on the contents of my iPhone, especially concerning my devious brother and your wife, but also anything connecting her with Eastern Europe. Also, this evening, you need to escort DS Pierce to your house, so that she can pick one of Mary's outfits to wear tomorrow at the bank. She is a nice young lady, but if you try any of your Casanova advances on her, we shall have a very serious talk later about how much you value your daughter's security. You're half-a-dad, but you're Sheralyn's protector from the psychopathic Moriarty family! Are we clear on that?"

Dr Watson gulped visibly, and responded with a half-strangled "Yes."

"Good, I don't expect Acton to be as closely under surveillance as central London, but avoid any CCTV cameras you are aware of. I wouldn't put it past my devious brother to keep us under his scrutiny day and night. One other thing you must accomplish, is to find out whether the current head of the French Secret Services, DGSE, is at all connected to Lady Smallwood in any capacity, past or present."

"Anything else your Imperial Highness would like me to do in your absence?"

"Just because Grandmother Vernet was the daughter of Grand Duchess Ekaterina Romanova doesn't give you the right to belittle my antecedents. Simply do as I ask. And above all, cancel that call to Child Services now!"

"All right, all right, don't get your knickers in a twist!"

A shadow of a smile curled at the corners of Sherlock's mouth: "As I have reiterated in the past, since you are tasked with all the washing and drying, you must have noticed that I prefer cotton boxers, but be that as it may, we are going to the bank first thing tomorrow."

In the meantime, waiting for young Mr Sorge to show up with a security contingent, Sherlock proceeded to circle their unwilling "guest", trying to deduce as much as possible about the woman's recent activities so as to elicit as much useful information about her and the elusive Benedict Arnold in Mycroft's employ. At the moment, they seemed surrounded by traitors, double agents and schemers, chief among the last being his dear elder brother. 

Sherlock could see from the woman's coat that she had been in a downpour recently, as evidenced by the damp patches and speckles on her clothes, as well as her lightly damp hair, which he touched briefly to ascertain this deduction. She had also been in a warehouse near Allingham rather than Gravesend, on the Thames estuary, as evidenced by the peculiar loam still sticking to the soles of her loafers. This did not bode well if the woman had been thrown to them as a bone to distract them from recovering the baby, since the estuary was part of his overall map from Kent to Norfolk that Mary could escape to the Continent with Sheralyn. And then he saw it again: one of the damning rhinestones from Mary's headband was caught in the collar of the woman's jacket: had Mary leaned close to pay her off, or had she deliberately planted it? There was no telling, with that woman. He slowly came to realise that Mary, John's Mary, was a true psychopath; which explained why she might have worked for the other true psychopath in their little game from the start: Jim Moriarty! 

But now the question arose, what she wanted with her daughter, born of her union with the psychopath's twin brother, Captain James Moriarty, currently safely under lock and key at Her Majesty's pleasure (or Mycroft's!). 

Finally, young Mr Sorge appeared, with four companions who had clearly been weight-lifters in a previous existence, to take both the whimpering baby girl and the mysterious intruder into custody. 

Freed of their admittedly oppressive presence, Dr Watson and Sherlock heaved an almost simultaneous sigh. Dr Watson went so far as to go to the kitchen and put the kettle on, but not for tea, this time, for a strong cup of Blue Mountain coffee for both of them: the contents of the file on Sherlock's iPhone would have to be examined before the good doctor headed out to Acton in the company of DS Pierce. Strangely enough, it didn't feel like home any more.

Sherlock was already deep in thought as John handed him his cup of fragrant steaming coffee: "I hope you did remember to put two sugars in it?" 

"Once and for all, Sherlock, I may be your only friend in the world, and temporary flatmate once again, but I have made you enough cups of tea and coffee to know your preferences! Now, what can we deduce about my lying, adulterous, murderous wife, if it's not too much to ask?"

Sherlock heaved another sigh! Between themselves, his brother and his best friend were apparently trying to drive him round the bend, or, which was far more likely, a fatal overdose of something or other, just to escape their continued harassment!

After having synced his iPhone with his laptop, he opened the fresh pages on Mary that had 'oh so conveniently' lain out of Mycroft's vault on the day of their visit: and he knew what his brother believed about coincidence: by this point in time, he didn't trust Mycroft not to be deeply involved in both Mary's appearance in John's life during his absence, as well as not to know a lot more than that secretive so-and-so was prepared to let them know.

As the pages scrolled down, Sherlock using the 'client chair' and John in his customary chair at their desk, they both realised that Mary had had a very chequered past, and what the late unlamented Magnussen had referred to as freelance jobs had, indeed, included jobs for people working for the late unlamented Jim Moriarty. Still, nowhere could they find any trace of this latter-day Mrs Smith having been one of the snipers set up against John, DI Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft.

"She is the perfect nurse and nearly perfect house-wife! How can she have killed so many people and sleep peacefully by my side every night, while I still woke up from nightmares of the battles and their wounded or you diving off that damnable rooftop! How?"

"I may designate myself as a sociopath to cover my lack of empathy, John. Your wife is a true psychopath. Now, more than ever, we need to rescue Sheralyn from her clutches."

"So, the plan goes ahead! I presume Mycroft has retrieved and copied her fingerprints, to be used tomorrow at the bank. Once DS Pierce arrives, I shall take her to the house, where she can use all of Mary's wardrobe, cosmetics, make-up and jewellery to fake her presence at the bank."

"And don't forget her perfume, John, olfaction is still one of the most underdeveloped senses, but a powerful one!"

"So powerful that it got you shot, you git!"

"I can always claim that Clair-de-la-lune is a perfume for younger women, like Mary, and not for Lady Smallwood! She still wears it because it's the first perfume her husband gave her as a gift, after their engagement. Sentiment, once again, John, it's really thoughtless on the part of the female half of the population to set such store by it."

After encrypting the dossier on Mary, Sherlock stood up, stretched, having been hunched over his laptop for quite a while, and threw over his shoulder at Dr Watson: "Fancy a nice bit of boeuf bourguignon, John?"

"You know me, I will try everything once. Where did you learn to make it, anyway?"

"Grand-mere Vernet insisted on our taking a complete cordon-bleu course, and some things are harder to erase than others. I have had the cote de boeuf marinating ever since yesterday. Now, we only need to cook it. Let me know what you think of it."

"Wait a minute, you said 'we': does that include Mycroft?"

"Obviously, John, but I'm usually too involved in a case to bother to eat, and Mycroft focused so much on the cake part of the course that it was wasted on him. Still, his home-made croissants are a feast fit for the gods, so flaky and golden and buttery! Now, will you help me? After all, I DID help you with the omelette although you did practically everything wrong and I didn't say a word about it."

"Fair's fair! I shall give you a hand, and if it turns out nice, and not like one of your less noxious chemical experiments, I shall wash up afterwards. There's a documentary on the latest Star Wars film, you know, "making of..." later, and we could watch it together."

While the food was stewing in its pot, Sherlock's phone vibrated: "Hello, brother dear, we are making boeuf bourguignon, care to join us? You still owe me a debriefing for the French part of this conundrum."

There goes the documentary! was Dr Watson's mental response

Suddenly, Sherlock removed his mobile from his ear, as a plainly irate Mycroft could be heard yelling on the other side without the aid of the speakerphone button: "Sherlock, if I joined you now, you would have much more to worry about than a debriefing! Who gave you permission to touch a highly secret file?" 

"Really, Mycroft, you should watch these outbursts of yours, I'm sure they are not good for your blood pressure, and, after all, you are in the dangerous age for myocardial inarctus! Stop yelling at me, it's unseemly! The file was there, but it's not as if I read its contents, so all your sordid little secrets concerning your dealings with Mary will remain in your perfectly organised mind. Anyway, if you didn't want me to see it, you should have kept it locked in your safe. If you continue behaving in such an emotionally overwrought manner, I shall have to tell Mummy, and we both don't want to upset her, now, do we?"

This was such an inverted response to their usual repartee that it left Mycroft sputtering like a spent firework at the other end. "I shall come by tomorrow evening to give you all particulars concerning your trip to the Continent along with Mr Sorge and my PA's assistant. You had better hope that I find out you have told me the absolute truth about the file, baby brother. Till tomorrow evening, then, seeing as you have a big project ahead of you tomorrow morning. Good night!" 

When their conversation was over, Sherlock turned his attention to the food, but first, he placed both hands on the kitchen table and took a steadying breath. He was fairly certain that his little electronic scam with the monitors in Mycroft's office could not be easily discovered, putting them on an endless feedback loop of John and he waiting on the sofa.

In the end, John got to enjoy a really excellent dinner accompanied by a superb Pouilly-Montrachet Pinot noir Bourgogne wine. 

It sent deep purple radiance through the crystal glass, with a hint of rubies in its depths, and when he had clinked glasses with Sherlock and made a feeble toast to success on the morrow, he took his first sip and was dazzled: this was sunshine caught in a bottle, those deep red crepuscular rays which farmers had always held to be a good omen for next day's weather! 

"It's the gift of a grateful client, " Sherlock explained, "I was able to prove to the local gendarmerie that they should not arrest him for the murder of his unfaithful wife but her unmarried sister, instead. She had most to gain, as they were both left the sole inheritors to their childless uncle's adjoining vineyard, and by French law, which permits marriage under community of property, the married sister stood to benefit more when it came to the division of the lands. Barely a four, but the countryside is beautiful around there. Once I had convinced the French police idiots, they were quick in securing a confession, and the man sent me two dozen of this. Rather good, don't you think?"

Dr Watson thanked his lucky stars that his friend was such a lightweight in matters of alcohol, because he got to drink two-thirds of the bottle at least, finishing the deep red nectar just as the documentary's end credits started rolling. 

Next morning, he had reason to thank his lucky stars for his military training, because once his alarm sounded he jerked immediately awake, rushed out of bed and started planning his activities. First things first, after a quick visit to the bathroom and a rapid shower, he went to prepare breakfast and then drag an unusually deeply-slumbering Sherlock out of bed: perhaps the wine had got to him, but they both needed to be prepared for the visit of DS Pierce: she was a policewoman, she would be punctual! He managed to push his friend in the direction of the bathroom, then got him to eat a piece of toast with jam with his tea, finished his own breakfast, and was just drying his hands after washing up the breakfast things, when the doorbell rang. He could hear Mrs Hudson's voice talking to a woman downstairs and directing her to their flat. At least Sherlock was freshly shaven and dressed in a cool wool charcoal suit with a white shirt underneath: there would be no sheet-wrapped apparitions this time! 

After the introductions were performed on both sides, Dr Watson grabbed his coat , house and car keys: they would drive together with Amanda Pierce to Acton, where she would be transformed into Mary for the day.

Once there, as he was putting the key in the lock, he couldn't help but remember what plans he had made for a long and happy life in this place with Mary and their children. Now, through a truly freakish joke of nature, he shared his daughter with ex-Captain James Moriarty, Mary was a multiple assassin on the run, and his life lay in ruins around him. Straightening his shoulders, he showed the blonde young woman in, watched her as she collected framed pictures of Mary or Mary and himself, and took her to their bedroom, where she positioned the photographs on the glass-topped vanity table in front of the mirror and then started rummaging in Mary's wardrobe. Finally, she picked out a light beige pantsuit and a silk blue-green blouse with a little frill on an upright Chinese collar. 

He went into the living room to let her dress in peace, only calling out not to forget the perfume, and was overwhelmed with memories. 

When she emerged, he almost did a double-take: she was no longer Amanda Pierce, she was Mary's twin! It must be the contact lenses, he told himself, looking into startlingly familiar wide blue eyes. "Shall we?" she asked, and he noticed that she had picked one of Mary's semi-formal black leather bags, to go with her own black pumps, and that she was carrying a small packet under one arm: presumably her own clothes. 

He escorted her out, locked the house, along with its memories, and drove her back to Baker Street. where Mycroft's minions had in the meantime delivered the small box containing the invisible-film set of Mary's fingerprints, although the bank would require only her right thumbprint for identification purposes, but better safe than sorry, especially since they only had a magistrate's approval for what was clearly an impersonation, punishable by law: Dr Watson felt an insane urge to laugh; as if his psychopathic murderess and kidnapper of a wife would ever be able to press charges! 

Sherlock looked DS Pierce over with his usual all-enveloping glance, straightened one of her blonde bangs to tuck another behind her ear, clicked his tongue in approval, and then ushered her out of the flat, John bringing up the rear. Anyway, he wouldn't be going into the bank with them, he would be on the other side of Piccadilly Street as backup. He noticed that Sherlock had taken the judge's warrant with him, as it no longer lay next to his laptop, then closed the door behind them. 

During their ride in the cab, DS Pierce smiled at Sherlock: "I do hope you have had something to eat, Mr Holmes...Sherlock, a fainting fit in Coutt's vault would be most inconvenient and expose our little adventure."

"Thank you, Amanda, Dr Watson saw to that this morning, my glucose level right now would verge on diabetic levels," he smiled. 

Fainting fit, what fainting fit? wondered Dr Watson, but had no time to ask his flatmate, as they had arrived at their destination. 

"Once more into the breach, dear friends..." he found himself murmuring, as Sherlock helped DS Pierce out of the cab, offered her his arm, and together they went through the brass and glass revolving doors of the oldest banking establishment in London. 

Sherlock measured his stride so that the much shorter Amanda could keep pace, as they headed for the section dealing with the safety deposit boxes. He was not surprised to see that Mycroft had pulled some more strings, as one of his agents was behind the glass partition. It would simplify matters enormously!

DS Pierce smiled at the nondescript blond young man: "Good morning, I should like my deposit box, please" 

"Certainly, ma'am. Just sign this request form here, giving your deposit box number, and then follow me, please."

"I should like this gentleman to be present when I inspect its contents."

"Certainly, ma'am. Under our rules, we shall need some identification, unless he's your solicitor or has power of attorney."

Sherlock produced his driver's license and a letter from his own solicitor firm, certifying his credentials.  
"Most satisfactory! Sir, ma'am, please follow me."

They were taken to the basement by a lift which Sherlock couldn't help but observe, was operated by key, the key in the young man's possession. They were then shown into a comfortable room, while the box was being fetched. So far so good. The moment of truth was soon upon them: the polite young man asked Amanda to produce her key, he produced his own, they worked the locks together, then Amanda had to sign for delivery on an electronic device and confirm her identity by pressing her thumbprint in the appropriate slot. Sherlock hadn't even noticed he had been holding his breath until the light on the device turned green, granting them access: his exhalation was almost a sigh, which he quickly turned into a small cough. 

The young man withdrew, leaving them alone with Mary's safe deposit box. Amanda pushed the lid open and they both stared into it avidly: two passports, one American, the other Australian, several thousand pounds, a soft chamois skin roll of burgling tools, almost as good as his own in quality, and a telltale indentation: another box, slightly longer than the average jeweller's box for a necklace, had lain in that receptacle, obvious by the very faint trace of dust particles delineating its shape. What had it held and where was it now? 

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass, quickly making two more discoveries: other dust patterns showed that there had been another two passports in there, as well as a small vial and a rectangular shape, as of a small digital camera. Where were they now? In Mary's possession? 

Satisfied by his search, unable to glean any more information, he photographed the two passports with his mobile, as well as the whole contents of the box, then nodded to Amanda to click it shut. She did so, then rang the bell summoning the polite young man, thanked him for his time, once more accepted Sherlock's arm, and they were whisked back upstairs, carefully measuring their steps until they were clear of the revolving doors.

"Frankly, Mr Holmes, don't ask me to such a nerve-wracking thing again. Every minute down there felt like a decade! I don't care what o'clock it's in the morning, I need a large drink!"

"Well, then, seeing as you're not on duty, Amanda, the Savoy is practically next door, and its bar is rather well-stocked, I'm told." 

Retrieving Dr Watson, the trio quickly disappeared round another set of revolving doors.

Once comfortably ensconced in the overstuffed velveteen-covered armchairs around a discreet alcove table in the Savoy bar, DS Pierce showed no hesitation in ordering a double Courvoisier cognac, while Sherlock chose a fruit punch and Dr Watson, who had been left out of most of the action, went for an Irish coffee, smiling sourly, as the Irish connection in their lives had brought so much misery and pain!

"So, what are your preliminary conclusions, Mr Holmes... Sherlock?" asked Amanda, once their order had been served by a white-gloved waiter.

Sherlock took a moment to examine the ridiculous little paper umbrella stick holding the actual pieces of fruit together, before answering her:" What's is use, purely aside from the ornamental?" he mused, then turned his full attention to her. She deserved to know as much as he did, her help was of immense value in piecing together the conundrum that was Mary, as well as helping get Sheralyn back.

Having taken a tentative sip of the cool, refreshing drink, he turned his full attention to her:" You may work in the financial crime division, Amanda, but you surely saw the evidence: Mary has removed at least half of the money stored there, two passports of unknown provenance, a small vial, an oblong and a rectangular box. To what purpose, we may find when we get to the Continent, while you go back trying to catch crooked businessmen and their double dealings. Your help today was of inestimable value, I shall make sure that your superiors know of your help in this situation, you deserve all the credit! If at any time you decide to go freelance as a conwoman, I assure you, you have got the skill set."

"Praise from an expert is praise indeed, Sherlock, but I'd rather stick to crunching numbers for the foreseeable future. Gosh, this blouse is sticking to my body this moment through the cold sweat I felt running down my back while we were led through the process of opening the box. But it was worth it, if the poor child can be saved in time."

After this small interlude, they escorted DS Pierce back to Baker Street, where she went into the bathroom to refresh herself and change back into her things, leaving Mary's clothes in the hamper: they would be dry-cleaned and restored to Mary's wardrobe by Dr Watson, especially since he couldn't come to the Continent with the rest of them, due to that outstanding French warrant.

Dr Watson abandoned the hope of a proper lunch as soon as he saw his flatmate, back in baggy sportswear under his dun-coloured dressing gown lay stretched out on the sofa, deep in thought. He rummaged in the fridge for ingredients and cobbled together BLT sandwiches for both of them, using the left-over bacon from breakfast that Sherlock had simply ignored. He brewed two mugs of tea, brought the improvised snack to the office desk and set Sherlock's portion on the coffee table, within easy reach. He saw with relief that after a while his playmate took a few tentative nibbles and drank a bit of the lukewarm liquid. At least, Sherlock wasn't so deep in thought that he completely ignored the demands of his body!


	31. Chapter 31

That evening, precisely at six o'clock, Mycroft's arrival was heralded by Mrs Hudson's hushed voice downstairs: Mycroft had a key to the flats, had had one ever since Sherlock had rented it, and by now Dr Watson was aware of the reason: Mycroft's continued worry over his younger brother's drug habits resurfacing!

"Good evening, so how did your jaunt go, Sherlock?"

"I would wish you to the Devil, Mycroft, if I were sure he existed, but good evening to you, too." was the predictable response.

"I have come, at great personal inconvenience, what with the unstable financial situation in the rest of Europe and the US, to find out how things went, and if you are any nearer in getting Dr Watson's daughter back any time soon."

"We are clear on some points, still very much in the dark on others. Any news from Customs and Excise?"

""Nothing bigger than a fishing smack that couldn't even cross the Channel has been reported leaving its moorings. How about you?"

"I photographed the contents of the safe deposit box, see if you can come up with anything worthwhile." was Sherlock's response, tossing the iPhone to Mycroft before he realised something: after transferring the contents of Mary’s file onto the laptop in the encrypted folder, he had neglected to delete them! Now, he was in deep trouble!

"You realize brother dear that I did not believe you for a second when you said that you had not looked at the file on my desk." Mycroft stated flatly as he looked at the thumbnail images in Sherlock's Camera Roll on his phone. "Anthea was more crafty than you. I do believe this belongs to you," Mycroft pulled tweezers out of his suit pocket and handed them to Sherlock. "She found it on the floor as she was serving you tea and biscuits and discreetly pushed it under the chair somehow without your noticing. So unlike you Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed as he took the tool back into his possession. He most certainly had not realized that it had landed on the floor instead of his suit pocket when he was putting it away as Anthea entered with the refreshments. He was mentally chiding himself with a series of stupids. He knew better but was equally grateful that Mycroft was not exploding like he had earlier. 

"Most interesting lack of contents. Have you figured out all that is missing beyond the 2 passports or do you need me to fill in? I understand that you have 3 hours until your flight." Sherlock didn't respond right away. He was still in a tiff about leaving the tweezers behind at his brother's office. He was so much better than that usually.

"Hurry up Mycroft as we need to cover the debrief in less than an hour before I need to head to the airport for my flight."

"The missing small rectangle was a high powered binoculars designed to look like an ordinary basic digital camera. The long narrow case contains a necklace and bracelet set. They were not your ordinary set either. The necklace contained multiple strands with the longest at 30 inches hence the length of the box. Both pieces had several rhinestones inlaid as well as some cloak and dagger bits. She is an assassin after all. That should be enough to cover the missing details."

"Just about brother. You seemed to have conveniently skipped over the vial. Or was that used as part of the kidnapping from Major Sholto's place?" Sherlock asked tetchily.

"The people Ms. Ramage are connected to are powerful and conniving. Moriarty and his network are only the tip of the iceberg for what she's in. Magnussen was just another piece as well. I can assure you that the vial was not anything to be used on your precious goddaughter. We found 2 men of Eastern European connections along the Southwestern part of Thames Estuary about an hour ago. The vial was found in the pocket of the shorter one. The bodies are currently being processed as well as the vial tested. I have also been assured that the Thames Estuary has been closed off to all outgoing nautical traffic since minutes after you requested the Eastern coast be watched. Anthea made that call personally in my presence. That should cover everything you need to know before the debrief. Dr. Watson, a cup of tea would be pleasant about now if you would." Mycroft stated kind of sternly before relaxing his tone slightly with the last statement.

While Dr Watson could see the usual sniping between the brothers, he could also notice that as Mycroft first scrolled through the images on Sherlock's iPhone, he had progressively grown pink going on red in the face, in what he could remember from a Douglas Adams novel being called 'a suffusion of red', so when the request for tea came in the usual clipped tones, he almost jumped.

"Mycroft, kindly don't frighten John out of his wits, such as they are. It was my carelessness in not ensuring that the tweezers lay safely in my inside jacket pocket, my fault that I didn't delete the images the moment I had secure copies of them."

"And therein lies the nub of the problem, brother mine! You couldn't care less that you were illegally acquiring top secret information about a sensitive matter, all you care about is not upsetting your precious 'friend and colleague' any more than he has already been upset! No feelings of remorse over your misdeed, nothing! I have always maintained that your eccentricities hide a complete and total amoral character, but we shall discuss this little oversight of yours after you return from France. I shall expect you at my club, duly penitent, or there will be consequences, Sherlock. Now, let's get things straightened out: you, Mr Sorge and Ms Warburton will get debriefed by our French liaison officer later this evening. Your passport is ready, no need for aliases, this time!

An aide of Monsieur Bajollet will be awaiting your arrival at the port of Calais, and from then on I suggest you follow the DGSE guidelines to the letter, no flashes of insight, no haring off on your own, no trying to ditch your French assistants, because they have a vastly different legal system, and France is most definitely NOT Serbia! Have I made myself clear?"

During this tirade, Dr Watson could see his friend growing paler with each well-formulated sentence, somehow shrinking into his chair, appearing smaller and more vulnerable than he had ever seen him. He instinctively realised that Mycroft was controlling a very deep-seated anger, and when he served the requested tea, he made sure to use their good gold-leaf porcelain set with the UK motif on it, rather than their usual mugs.

"Yes, Mycroft." was the only reply Sherlock gave, before reaching for his own cup, which would certainly bring back flashes of Moriarty carving his infamous I.O.U into the apple left on the armrest of his own chair.

Unfortunately, due to his past indiscretions, Dr Watson could not be a part of this little jaunt to the Continent, and he was more than a bit upset that his best friend would be on his own, and if he did something reprehensible under French law, Big Brother would most certainly NOT bail him out!  
Still, he had to keep his word to the charming, helpful DS Pierce who had proved of inestimable help in more ways than one:  
"Mycroft, before you send me off to the Continent, could you have your pet goldfish deliver two cartons of your specially-made Latakeia filter-tipped cigarettes to DS Amanda Pierce, NSY, Financial Crime division? I would so hate to get into more trouble with you by being forced to break and enter into your Diogenes club private room just so I could pilfer them for her, when the straight and narrow seems the more sensible path for me at this moment!"

"Certainly, Sherlock, if that's your wish! A gentleman should always keep his word, even if he behaves like a low-life!"

Mycroft finished his tea and left. Sherlock gathered his pack and headed to the Baker Street Station. He didn't have time to hail a cab and get to Gatwick Airport when he needed to. As much as he hated public transport it was going to be at least 15 minutes faster than a taxi. Sherlock stood near the door despite the many open seats. He was going to do his best to not verbally deduce anyone and to get off the train as quickly as possible at Oxford Circus to make his connection to the Victoria Rail Station and on to Gatwick. The 3 minute trip seemed to last 30. He struggled to keep his deductions to himself when he heard a couple of uni students talking about him not realizing that he was right next to them. "you do realize that the detective you are talking about could figure out where you two just came from by the crumbs left on your hoodies if he so chose. I would suggest being careful who you talk about in public. Oh and the better location is just north of Regent's Park."

Sherlock departed from the train moments later leaving the two students gaping. They realized that was Sherlock that had just talked to them. The rest of the trip to Gatwick was uneventful thankfully. Sherlock went through security and waited as patiently as possible at the gate. He figured out who his seat mate was going to be and was thankful for his window seat. He was hoping for someone who wouldn't be a talker but could tell that was highly unlikely.

3 hours later, Sherlock was disembarking having stared out the window most of the flight. It had worked as a deterrent to talking with the older lady next to him on the flight. She loved cats, had 3 currently, lived with her single daughter, lost her husband 4 months back, loved to talk to anyone willing to chat, hated flying, but needed the flight over the high speed train for health reasons as she was not always stable on her feet, knitted hideous jumpers for all of her nieces and nephews when they went off to uni. Mr. Sorge and Ms. Warburton met Sherlock in baggage claim before exiting the airport. They jumped into the back of the SUV and made their way for the coast with a brief stop in Arras en route to pick up some supplies from what Sherlock was told. He knew that wasn't the actual reason for the stop and didn't really care to say otherwise. He knew he was in hot enough water with his brother the way it was. But he did keep his guard up just in case anyone tried to pull something on him leading up to and during that stop.

After having made their stopover in an insignificant hamlet near Calais, the trio continued on their drive to meet with M. Bajollet's emissary, who would be the agent responsible for their debriefing, seeing as Sherlock's hasty departure had put a very firm end to his being debriefed in Britain. It was almost as if he were running from Mycroft's all-seeing presence, but it was necessary if they meant to surprise Mary and get the baby back before she crossed the imaginary borders of the former Eastern Europe with her daughter. Anything to do with Poland, and, in particular the Russian-held old Prussian capital of Koenigsberg had the potential to trigger the scenario first developed as a hypothesis by Mrs Holmes, and then there would be no time left to worry about a solitary baby in the company of its natural mother, however many signs of a true psychopathic killer she exhibited. 

An extraordinarily fair Frenchman by the name of Lagarde met them at the appointed service station just outside Calais, giving and receiving the proper coded answers. 

Sherlock gave him his usual piercing once-over, but came out of it not very much the wiser: the man had a wife and two children, as evidenced by his well-worn but glinting wedding-ring, the infinitesimal amount of Nutella or some such sticky concoction daubing his tie and his left sleeve, and the very clear stain of chocolate milk on his right shirt cuff. He had obviously given the children their breakfast in a tearing hurry, as could be seen from his slightly skewed necktie, probably because Calais was not his home town, and he had had to hurry to meet them. 

"Bonjour, Monsieur Lagarde, I hope that you can give us the latest information at your disposal concerning the person known as Mary Watson and her precious baggage."

"Why, indeed, Mr Holmes, mon chef m'a dit de ne rien vous cacher! I have been instructed to give you whatever information we have gathered, however slight or insignificant it might seem on the surface."

However, it turned out to be a debriefing of mostly negative facts: Mary had not been sighted anywhere on French soil, nor any of the contacts who the DGSE had on file as associated with her in her past life. Nor had there been any unusual activity on the part of said contacts, like unusual movements to reach the coast or even abandon their routines.

Sherlock huffed half in disappointment and half in hope: it was just possible that Mary hadn't had the means at her disposal to escape to the Continent. He much preferred having wasted his time on a wild-goose chase to tracking Mary the length and breadth of France. 

But when all four of them were ensconced in the harbourmaster's office in Calais, the call came through which he dreaded: French Customs boats had intercepted a powerful speedboat in offshore waters outside Honfleur, and had challenged it to stop and be boarded for inspection. But before they could do so, there had been a terrible explosion on the vessel in question, which had apparently torn it apart and had caused its very rapid sinking. After they had approached the wreckage, the Customs boat had retrieved a life-jacket and a piece of the Plexiglas frame bearing a name in a Cyrillic script: Lubov! 

Sherlock had his phone on silence during the trip. He felt it vibrate in his pocket. A few minutes later the group was stopping in Arras. Sherlock took that opportunity to check his message.

British Secret Services Project: Foxtrot Moonglow 105 Priority Crucial 

> RE: Operative Abbigail Grace Ramage Aarons (AKA Abbigail Grace Ramage, Abbigail Grace Renee Anderson, Amanda Gwen Renee Andersdatter, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, Mary Elizabeth Watson)
> 
> Red Beard,
> 
> Benedict Arnold talked. Snow Board is suspect as well. Caution high. Sponge still vets out but no guarantees if you are in Arras. Suggest getting out & to Calais quickly. Eurostar halted through Channel citing minor issues with tunnel that needed to be checked out. Church Secretary will be in Calais to collect you. You know what to do for a response.
> 
> ~Brolly.

Sherlock knew what to do indeed. He scanned the area and saw that Ms. Warburton & Mr. Sorge were still inside. No one was walking around and no one was in any of the windows or on the roof. He also noted that there were no visible CCTV cameras. He reached into the boot of the SUV quietly grabbing his suit case. He lifted out a hypodermic needle carefully. Sherlock proceeded to push the button for the partition to slide down between the driver and passenger compartments. Before the driver knew what happened Sherlock quickly inserted the needle into a scab on the side of the neck he had noticed earlier at the airport. The driver slumped over moments later. Sherlock scanned the area again before grabbing his suitcase and leaving the SUV as the partition slid closed again. He stuck a tracking device under the SUV then darted away from the buildings into the woods.

After 30 minutes of heading north-northwest of where they had stopped, Sherlock found a car that he knew belonged to an idiot as the doors were locked, the windows up and the top down. He quickly jumped in past the rear passenger window near the boot grabbing his suitcase as he went. He climbed into the front seat and got the car going within 30 seconds. Definitely an idiot of an owner he thought. He quickly messaged Mycroft. "Idiots. Need '35 Grand Cru Georges."~SH. 

Sherlock put the top up and started towards Calais on A26. He knew his brother would know the arrival times and how to decode the wine name. He pushed the speed limit going nearly 161 kilometers per hour. He knew he could get away with it as the roads were dry and the car happened to belong to a foreign diplomat who had shown promise of some intelligence the one time they met. Unfortunately Sherlock had determined that Anderson on a bad day was brighter than the diplomat. Sherlock arrived in Calais about 35 minutes later meeting Anthea at the Rodin. Mycroft had indeed decoded Sherlock's response correctly.

Staggeringly Mr. Sorge and Ms. Warburton managed to get to Calais and had found Sherlock and Anthea. Sherlock had never expressed any interest in Calais let alone the Rodin. Ms. Warburton had Mr. Sorge at gun point. "Fancy seeing you here Anthea. We expected Sherlock to head here. Unfortunately Sherlock left Sorge a sitting duck. The driver is still out like a light in the back of the SUV. He won't be happy when he wakes. I suppose you gave him Rohypnol or something similar that's easy to get on the streets."

"Not really. I'm a graduate chemist as you undoubtedly know and as such, I know the benefits and uses of many plants that work just as well and rather quickly when micro-diluted properly. I usually keep some on hand just in case. Now what pleasure do we have with your acquaintance? Undoubtedly Sorge is just a ruse for your little game. I can tell by the way he's standing and the way you are holding the gun. You are a trained agent. You would never let your gun be at that angle if you were holding someone hostage. It's taught on the first day. I should know having done the training myself. Also, you were careless in how you came up here seeing us near the Rodin. I could have taken you out leaving Sorge unscathed. You are a bit slow. Now tell us why you are actually here as there is no way to collect on the package."

"You are the package Mr. Holmes and by association, now Anthea as well. AGRA has already left the country. She and her minions headed to Arnside and slipped out that way within the hour of taking her daughter back. Seaplanes do have their benefits sometimes even if they are small. By now they should be somewhere in Indonesia or the likes." Ms. Warburton stated as she let go of Sorge turning her gun towards Sherlock.

"So what do you want now then?" Sherlock had been sending a message to Mycroft about the nice turn up in the situation.

"First take your hands out of your pockets handing me your phone as you do. Anthea, your phone as well. Toss them on the ground and kick them over." Sherlock complied at least from what Warburton would see. He had been smart enough to foresee such an incident as a possibility and had packed a second phone with, one that had Mycroft's contact in it and some fake messages. His actual phone he was able to hide discretely on himself before he removed his hands from his pockets. Anthea complied as well. She did not have a second phone. Her phone had been a fake on purpose. Mycroft knew this would probably happen. The Holmes brothers thought alike much of the time despite their many disagreements. "Sorge, check them out. Make sure they have no weapons on them. Spread your arms and legs you two. Once we are satisfied, you will be coming with us. The kidnapping of Little Lamb was to draw you to France Sherlock. The plan worked like a charm. Yes AGRA wanted her daughter back. She was forced to leave without her. If she had been home alone with the baby when she had to leave, you would have been searching for 2 missing people off the bat thinking something happened to them against their will instead of how it played out. Sorry about that cabbie though. He was a nice bloke. Now all we need is Lizard and Scorpion and we will be all set with our plans. Do come along."

Sorge had finished checking them for weapons finding nothing. He had managed to miss Sherlock's phone as well. He checked Sherlock over about as well as Neilson had a few years earlier. If Warburton did not have a gun trained on him or Anthea, he would have taken Sorge out and proceeded to go after Warburton. Instead he had to wait for the right time which would be hard for him. Waiting was always hard for him. 

They made their way to the SUV with Sorge leading the way. As they neared, Sherlock seized the opportunity. He saw Warburton's reflection in the glass and managed to elbow her before grabbing the needle Sorge had failed to notice. The same needle that Sherlock had used earlier on the driver. He drove it into Warburton as Anthea struck Sorge on the back of the head. Both agents went down. Sherlock took precautions and injected Sorge with the last of the needle's contents. Sherlock had worked it out that only a small dose was needed to be effective and that one hypodermic needle could be used on 3 or more people. After taking care of both agents, Sherlock messaged his brother again.

Having assessed the present situation and alerted his brother to two of the moles, Sherlock recalled the way John had first arrived at Baker Street with Sheralyn. John had specifically said that he had returned from the park with Sheralyn in her pram only to find Mary gone without a trace. Now, Ms Warburton had clearly said that if Mary had been home alone when she had left, she would have taken the baby with her. The whole point being, who had been with her at the time of her hasty departure?  
He so detested hypothesising without enough data, he could almost feel a migraine headache building up from sheer frustration! 

It couldn't have been Jim, despite the rumours of his return from the grave. The lonely consulting criminal had given up even on their ongoing game and blown his brains out on the roof of St Bartholomew's; he should know as Molly and a team of Mycroft's men had carried out a thorough post-mortem. 

It couldn't have been ex-Captain James Moriarty, the one who had led them a merry dance almost a month ago, breaking into the flat like that! The only thing which could be said about him was that he had played his role well, as Sheralyn's other father. If he had been with Mary, they would simply have picked the baby up in her carry-cot and disappeared to a secure location. 

It couldn't have been ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran, for much the same reasons: if Mary had been one of Jim's hired snipers, the second-in-command of what was left of the former organisation would have actively helped her secure her daughter. 

It couldn't have been Janine, since she had later proven to be an extraordinary red herring in drawing all their attention to the Irish Sea and its possibilities as a means of escape. 

The only person who was completely out of the loop and also completely clueless was that neighbour of theirs, Kate, the one with the son who was a drug addict: a completely innocent visit as a neighbour, coming to pour her troubles in Mary's lap, and the psychopathic assassin had had to resume her role of suburban housewife, offer her tea, listen to her, while the clock was ticking and her window of opportunity in making a successful escape had been narrowing. 

She had probably shooed Kate out when the time had come, and then grabbed her safety deposit box key, all the money lying around in the flat, and literally fled! 

He would have to wait for their interrogation to be completed, but if the hydroplane story was true, and not the speedboat one, still Mary could only go East, the range of such a plane leaving her in mid-Atlantic, unless it had landed in the Azores. 

One way or another, he had to wait for replies, and he couldn't stand inactivity! 

Sherlock retrieved their mobiles from the inert forms of the two traitorous agents and handed Anthea hers while he pocketed his own. Mulling over their statements, he realised that the events hitherto did not constitute a logical sequence. And when he reviewed the statement about himself being the package to be delivered he gave vent to a rather strong expletive that had Anthea looking at him askance: "When and if we get back, please remind me to concede, publicly if need be, that my brother is, indeed, the smarter one. I have been a blind idiot, and shall need your help in reversing the previous course of action." "Certainly, Mr Holmes, in what way?" 

"First things first, we need to secure these two and then leave the area before Monsieur Leblanc comes back with reinforcements. Then, I shall explain what you have to do, and I hope that your Security Services training will help you pull it off." So, they manhandled the two unconscious form on the back of the SUV, secured them to each other by a pair of handcuffs (Sally's this time, they had lain so enticingly in the top drawer of her desk the last time he had visited her before the bank charade), and then climbed back into the vehicle with Sherlock driving, since Anthea would have needed a GPS for the route he was planning. 

After refueling at the outskirts of the large port, he turned right into D127 in the direction of a small town called Boursin, which had the enormous advantage of being surrounded by forests. Stopping on the outskirts near a copse of chestnut trees, he outlined his plan: he had been too hasty in rendering the two agents unconscious, since the probability was high that they would have led them to Mary, and thus to Sheralyn. She needed to convince them, once they came round, that she was on their side, a sleeper agent of their nebulous organization put in a place of trust right next to the office of the head of British security the better to monitor his contacts. 

Anthea had the rare gift of being a very good listener, and her work for Mycroft had made her very laconic. She asked for very little clarification and then set about helping him put his plan in effect.  
Thus it was that Sorge and Warburton came out of their drug-induced stupor to find Anthea working on freeing them of their bonds and Sherlock handcuffed to the dashboard of the vehicle, ostensibly looking daggers at her. She gave them her version of the story, and Sherlock marveled how voluble the usually monosyllabic young woman could get if properly motivated! Her message to them was clear: Take me to your leader! A message which she underscored by training her semi-automatic Beretta on Sherlock with the safety off!

He would never, ever consider her a goldfish ever again: she was proving to be a valuable and strong ally.

Under the directions of Warburton, Anthea drove the SUV past Dunkirk on the A16 and then turned left at Cuygnes, driving for the coastal town of Bray-Dunes. 

Sherlock had connected the dots and concluded that Warburton's assertion about Mary having taken off for parts unknown was just a misdirection on her part. Indeed, he firmly believed that a woman like Mary, who had proven her ability to hack into the most secure systems, had known about John's youthful indiscretion and had wanted to meet only him in a game of divide and conquer. Finally, they stopped in front of a traditional French restaurant, a place where the regulars probably still had their serviette rings kept in neat pigeonholes, appropriately called La Voile Bleue. Still in her role, Anthea unlocked his handcuffs and motioned him to precede her by hiding her gun under the folds of her jacket, which she had thrown over her lower arm. But in so doing, she slipped him her tiny Derringer, which he palmed and shoved into his trouser pocket, wishing one more time that his tailor would not cut his trousers so close-fitting. In doing so, he brushed against the key of 221B and had to remind himself that in their circumstances sentiment was not only a chemical defect but could prove fatal! Surrounded by the two women and preceding Sorge, he walked into the cool, dim interior of the wood-paneled restaurant with its cracked marble floor. Apparently, the meeting had been set up well in advance, because the rosy-cheeked waitress took them upstairs once Warburton had asked for the reservation of Madame Ramage.

Sure enough, there was Mary, hair dyed light brown, with a carry-cot at her feet. If he were a vain man, Sherlock would have figuratively patted himself on the back about the accuracy of his assessment of the situation, but was rendered speechless by a familiar figure emerging from the back room and saying in a familiar Irish lilt :"Did you miss me?" 

"Hello, Janine. What made you give up your retirement plans and the cottage in Sussex?"  
Fortunately for him, his quick mind and quick reflexes prevented them from seeing how perturbed he was by this turn of events, although he had been aware of the possibility that Janine Hawkins was in cahoots with Mary ever since the bodies of the two East European men had been found close to the Thames estuary. Not his problem at the moment. 

"Oh, you know me, Sherl, I stick by my family through thick and thin. Your brother Mike (Sherlock would have given anything to have Mycroft on a live feed at the moment, since the minor government official abhorred nicknames of any kind, if Mycroft could be said to possess any feelings beyond those he advocated for his family!) currently has my cousin in custody at an undisclosed location, and Mary offered her help in getting him out." 

"Janine, before we continue down what may be a very dangerous path for all parties concerned, were you telling the truth that time in the hospital?" For an inexplicable reason, certainly not based in logic, he wanted her to affirm her absolution of his trickery in the Magnussen affair. Not sentiment, not sentiment, he repeated to himself, and warily met her gaze: "Sherl, how can you ever ask? I am incapable of holding grudges if there's no profit, sentimental or material, to be had! Of course I forgive you your subterfuge, and Dr Watson did help me that night."

He should have realised it the moment she had used her nickname for him, but, unaccustomed to such nuances of feeling as he was, he needed concrete proof! 

He looked at Anthea and smiled a little. Things were not all that bad, after all.

His next centre of focus was Mary: "Why did you need to go to such lengths to take back my goddaughter, since you had plenty of opportunities at other times when John was at work?"  
"Because I didn't want a repeat of the Leinster Gardens debacle. What did I tell you in hospital? Not to tell John! What did you do, at great risk to your continuing recovery? The opposite! You HAD to tell John. Well, I couldn't have that scenario played out again, hence France, where my dear husband isn't welcome."

"Mary, we both know that you were perfectly willing to shoot me again, and not miss, despite the rather large trail of evidence I had left behind me that night. What did poor Mrs Whitney do to interfere with your plans and necessitate all this cloak and dagger stuff?"

He purposely didn't let on what her shooting of him had led to: IVC syndrome, renal problems and the tendency to double up in pain while investigating a crime scene. The silvery-hued scar would always be there, too. He had tried to make John go back to her for the sake of the baby, and he was damned if he and Anthea left the quaint little town without having recovered the sleeping infant in the carry-cot at Mary's feet. 

"Her visit was most inopportune, since I had received instructions that morning to join my immediate superior, and my fool of a husband had decided to take my daughter out for a stroll in order to give me some well-earned respite from her constant distraction. I wasn't made for motherhood, Sherlock, and I was rapidly nearing the end of my tether." 

"Yes, I did notice how you never nursed her but opted for formula from the maternity ward on, but if you have to go back to active duty, so to speak, why burden yourself with an infant you aren't particularly attached to?"

"You men, you overbearing brutes, you insensitive machine, in your case! She's mine! I carried her to term, whether I wanted to or not, thanks to your interference at the reception, because otherwise I would have visited my friendly neighbourhood gynaecologist and have had an abortion. Sheralyn is mine, and I shall use her as I see fit."

Sherlock could see that the baby was becoming increasingly restive, which meant that she was about to wake up and wail the whole place down, as she had done both at Baker Street and at the Yard. The question was, should he let her do so, or intervene before it happened?

Sherlock realized he had an uphill battle with the 2 against 4 and a barely sleeping baby to keep safe. He ran through various plans in his head quickly dismissing most of them. He realized that Anthea still had a small device that could quickly knock out Warburton and Sorge while she & Sherlock kept guns trained on Mary & Janine. He blinked almost imperceptibly but Anthea picked it up. She made another imperceptible motion and he realized her correction to the plan that was better. She had kept her left hand in her pocket that had the knock out device. She quickly flicked the button sending to tiny darts at Janine and Mary who went down as she and Sherlock stepped back and knocked out Warburton and Sorge by pistol whipping them. They grabbed Sheralyn and ran down the stair out to the vehicle.

Once in the vehicle, Sherlock secured Sheralyn's carry-cot to the back seat, since they weren't exactly prepared for a regular kidnapping and the requisite baby seat in this car, while Anthea strapped herself in the driver's seat. He made sure that the baby was still half-asleep (had Mary drugged her own daughter? ) and then joined Anthea in the front, He barely had the time to fasten his seat belt before Anthea had pulled out of their parking space with a loud screech of tyres. Why did all competent women drivers overcompensate as if they had missed out on becoming Formula One champions, he mused wearily. 

Still, they may have got the baby back, but there were so many unanswered questions, that liaising with Monsieur Leblanc was high on his list of priorities, as was tearing another one in Mycroft for landing them in this chaotic mess in the first place, what with insufficient data concerning the specific operation and still hiding (protecting? ) Mary's murky past and connections. Mycroft knew better than anyone that Sherlock could not be at his peak performance level either as a detective or as a government agent if he had to make things up as he got along!


	32. Chapter 32

Since, for once, Anthea's hands were wrapped around the steering wheel and not her ubiquitous Blackberry ( the woman should really switch to an iPhone or an android smartphone, didn't she realise her beloved gadget was becoming obsolete?), he fired off a series of texts to ensure that once they were back in civilisation, which meant Dunkerque, as it was closest, they would need everything from nappies and baby formula to Sheralyn's asthma medication and an update on their current status.

They communicated in terse whispers, both acutely aware of Sheralyn's little snuffling noises and whimpers as she moved in the carry-cot. 

"Mr Holmes, when I was sent to help you, I was apprised of the actual situation, but not of Dr Watson's daughter's actual condition. Now that we have her, what shall we do with her?"

"What does one do with an infant, Miss Moneypenny? One feeds and burps it, changes its nappies and sees to it that it has all the sleep it needs, both for itself and for one's peace and quiet."

"Mr Holmes, I may be your brother's assistant, but he's not M, at least not like in the James Bond films' sense."

"What a waste of a perfectly good initial in his given name, then! Very well, I have set up a meeting with our French liaison officer when we arrive at Dunkirk, as well as a shopping trip to a local supermarket to get basic supplies for the baby. The way we got her back was well-nigh a miracle, outnumbered as we were, but we cannot possibly get out of France without completing the mission. At the moment, we have a very irate quartet on our heels, not to mention their hired help we put out of commission. We definitely need Monsieur Leblanc to provide cover for us, while we execute the rest of our mission."

"But I was led to believe that our mission consisted of following the kidnappers and rescuing Sheralyn from them!"

"How very perceptive of you, dear lady, but it's not all we have to do. Why was it necessary to set this whole thing up in a country where Dr Watson cannot set foot in without facing charges? To get us, specifically me, here, without my trusted friend and loyal backup. Think!"

"Surely, Colonel Moran would not be as devious as his former chief?"

"The man seems to be out for revenge, and we have managed to foil Mary's plans concerning Sheralyn, for the moment. We need local help, and we need it fast. Ah, there we are, we have reached the outskirts of Dunkirk. Keep your eyes on the road, and I shall locate the nearest supermarket. Once there, you are not to leave the car or the baby for one second. I shall be as fast as I can."

Anthea nodded to show her compliance with his wishes, but then giggled: Sherlock looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted another head on her shoulders; he had never heard her make such a natural sound. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing, Mr Holmes, just the idea of you sweeping down the aisles in search of nappies, formula, steriliser material and baby bottles, that's all!" 

"You forgot baby oil, talcum powder, some towels, a teething ring and a dummy." he replied and once they reached a giant Monoprix she pulled into the car park, switched off the engine and saw him get out, all long limbs for once co-ordinated in absolute purpose. 

While Anthea tried not to pay too much attention to the baby girl, she found herself observing Sheralyn in the rearview mirror, and was quite surprised when Sherlock returned with his hands full of shopping bags, opened the back and unloaded all his purchases.

When he got into the front, he handed her a ferry ticket for the next boat from Dunkirk to Calais.

"I'm really sorry to be landing you alone with a most sought-after little girl to return to Britain and the relative safety my brother can provide, but I need to ascertain the exact reason why Moran or Mary, or any hellish creature, would want to separate me from John on a pointless mission apart from the retrieval of the baby. Are you sure that you can pass yourself off as a young mum gone on a weekend trip to France to calm down from all the exertions of new motherhood and now returning home in a better mood?"

"But, Mr Holmes, your brother specifically instructed me when he sent me over here, at your behest, may I remind you, that under no circumstances should I leave your side!"

"That's all very well and good, but I need to know the real reason for this mission, and have already arranged to meet Monsieur LeBlanc at about the same time your boat will be leaving port. Not, to prepare Sheralyn's formula!"

He went to the back of the car, took out the bottle and put it in the portable sterilizer, then mixed what appeared to be a perfectly innocuous measure of milk for the baby.

Coming back, he picked Sheralyn up from the carry-cot, adjusted a towel over his clothes, then settled her comfortably in his lap and began feeding the half-sleeping infant.

Anthea observed the scene without a comment, but Sherlock forestalled her:" Yes, both John and Sergeant Donovan have remarked on the fact, but it's only by necessity, I would never make a good father. Your boss, the bane of my existence, would have made a far better one, had he ever bothered. After all, I was dumped on him as a mewling new-born, and he all of eight years old, and he coped."

After burping Sheralyn, checking that she did not need a nappy change and rocking her a bit, he put her back in the makeshift car-seat and instructed Anthea to drive to the port, so as not to miss the boat.

Once in the docking area, he retrieved some things, which he quickly stuffed into a serviceable rucksack, also apparently bought at the supermarket, checked his passport with the assumed name, checked his wallet and mobile, quickly brushed his lips against the baby's forehead and jumped from the car.

"Quickly, now, you wouldn't want to miss your embarkation cue!" he smiled at Anthea.

She, in turn, turned to look at the baby's lolling head: "Mr Holmes, have you drugged Sheralyn?" she asked, her outrage evident by the way she was gripping the wheel.

"Oh, don't worry, it's a very light thing Wiggins came up with last Christmas, and since then I have perfected it. Have a safe trip home!" he replied airily, turned and mingled with the crowd, leaving her holding the goods, literally and figuratively!

Briefly, she entertained the thought of taking out her Service automatic and accomplishing what Jeff Hope, Moriarty, Magnusson and countless others had failed to do, but she thought of her boss, gritted her teeth and followed the instructions of the loading crew onto the ferry.

Anthea boarded the ferry without issues and made the trek upstairs with a very much asleep baby girl. She found an out of the way corner where they were mostly hidden but she could see all of the exits from the area. Anthea settled in for the short voyage.

Sherlock briskly walked through the crowd and worked his way towards the car rental lot. He had connections still from his time of dismantling Moriarty's network and some early case work when he finally had gotten clean shortly before meeting John. He went through the VIP line and was escorted to a Peugeot RCZ in black. He took the keys from the clerk and took off for his meeting with Monsieur Leblanc. A few minutes later he arrived at a small manor on the edge of town heading towards Calais. He parked in the car park and headed to the front door. Before he even had a chance to ring the door bell, the door was opened for him. He was greeted by Monsieur Leblanc.

"Monsieur Holmes, what is the pleasure of your visit? Your brother has been in very cryptic contact earlier saying that I should expect your arrival at some point."

"Monsieur Leblanc, I am on the case of a certain Moriarty who has a twin, a subordinate, and my best friend's wife all in cahoots. Plus the innocent baby that is in secure care of the best female I know outside of a morgue. What I need to know is why the wife would grab her own daughter and come here necessitating the baby's father, her husband, from being able to retrieve said baby and forcing me to come get that said baby."

"Ah, yes. Definitely the question of the day. You wouldn't happen to be talking about a certain Abbigail Aarons who has more secret titles than the latest Bond movie?"

"The one and only of course. I must remember to never trust women with blond hair before I get a full deduction of them first. Especially if they jump to my side immediately. She has been nothing but trouble since a few days after I met her. Don't tell anyone I said this as I'll never live it down, but the baby is cute in her own way. Still glad she's not mine as I would be a rubbish father on a good day and we won't discuss the bad days. What can you tell me about Abbigail and/or this whole Moriarty fiasco?"

"Mr Holmes, our service is beholden to you for managing to remove the majority of top agents in Professor Moriarty's network across Europe and parts of Asia. I am at your disposal to help in Ms. Aarons' case: she carried out a few assignments for us in the past, so you would be better off talking to her erstwhile handler, Monsieur Ganimard, he will know exactly what went on. But the reason you are here without your partner is that our service needs you to solve a rather embarrassing problem involving the minister of Foreign Affairs and his, let's say mistress. The lady has mysteriously disappeared after a late-night tryst with the minister at a small pavilion in Malmaison, and our friends in the Quai des Orfevres have given it up as an almost unsolvable mystery. Dr Watson's absence was necessary, because everybody has been reading his blog in both the DGSE and the Quai, for light entertainment, of course, since your blog on the science of deduction is much more informative, and it was agreed at the top that he couldn't be allowed to participate in this investigation due to his garrulity." 

Sherlock sighed and asked Monsieur Leblanc for a cigarette. They both lit up, and the unfiltered sharpness of true Gauloises seemed to help him get his ideas back online. So, John had been artfully excluded because he occasionally wrote about the cases in too much indiscreet detail. He had to admit that it was a very neat move on the part of the French security services, which had acted on the evidence of his past with the good doctor. 

"Very well, Monsieur Leblanc, I shall do my best to investigate the poor lady's disappearance if you first bring me into contact with This Monsieur Ganimard, so I may learn something more about Mary dear and her very murky past. It has come to the point that I wish I had not pushed John to make up with her and thus avoid all the Magnussen fiasco! After all, there are so many couples who get divorced even with a child on the way or with children in the home!" 

"Trust me, Mr Holmes, when I say that after what you learn about her missions she will in no way remain "Mary dear" in your mind. Shall we get going, then?"

They both got in the car, Sherlock preferring not to drive this time, since Monsieur Leblanc seemed to know the area and its highways and byways like the back of his hand. While driving, the French agent used the car's Bluetooth to make a brief call in what seemed a polite conversation about the weather, but was certainly code arranging their meeting with the other agent. Mary's 'handler' indeed! Sherlock doubted that anyone on the planet could handle the termagant hiding behind the sweet mask of Mary's public facade. Even at this moment, she would be planning ways to get her daughter back, get her own back at him, possibly with the help of the joker in the pack: Janine Hawkins, alias Moriarty. He was not Hercules; he couldn't fight such a multi-headed Hydra!

When the two men reached Abbeville, still on Route A16, Monsieur LeBlanc did some fancy manouevering to see that no one was following them, a wise precaution in the circumstances, and then drove to the banks of La Somme, parking near a bistrot with the apposite name Chez Jules, and Sherlock remembered how Mycroft had insisted on his perfecting his French by reading the entirety of Commissaire Maigret's stories, by Georges Simenon. Maybe they had been the deciding factor in his decision to become a consulting detective rather than an implausible pirate, back then. 

They got out of the car and entered the bistrot. In the usual dimmed light of the inside of such a place, Monsieur LeBlanc steered both of them to a little marble-topped table in a corner, and Sherlock immediately registered how the nondescript man sitting there in his off-the-peg clothes had picked the best spot for ensuring privacy and for being able to observe all customers entering or leaving. Monsieur Ganimard was no slouch when it came to work, then, although Sherlock, approaching him, could see that the man, like DI Lestrade was in an unhappy marriage, plagued by his wife's infidelities...but, wait a second...he had a mistress on the side! Oh, those French and their libertarian attitudes! Anyway, he wasn't here to find out about Monsieur Ganimard's sexual life, but about Mary! 

Once all three were seated and two more cafe au lait had been ordered, Monsieur Ganimard gushed: Mr Sholmes, you can't fathom how great an honour you are doing me just by being here! It is a privilege I shall recount to my grandchildren, without the details of the case, of course!" 

"Thank you, Monsieur, now if you could give us the details of your collaboration with Abbigail Aarons, alias Mary Watson, I would be extremely grateful." Manners were not his style, as he tore through cases like a tornado, but past experience had taught him that excessive politeness worked on the French like grease or machine oil worked on machines. 

"Well, Monsieur Sholmes, it is true that we arranged three eliminations for Mademoiselle Aarons, and two of them went like a dream. She was in position, she took out the targets, she left having recovered the spent cartridges like a thoroughing professional, but the third assignment involved an Australian Greenpeace agitator, who had been causing us a lot of grief after the unfortunate mishap. You do understand, Monsieur Sholmes, that it is never easy to look foolish in the eyes of the other secret services, never mind having to surrender your own operatives to justice! Think of your own time spent in an MI6 holding cell after having done exactly what your instructions were! Anyway, I instructed Ms Aarons to wound that person as a warning. He had been warned not to continue with his illicit propaganda to no effect. I don't know exactly what happened on his tiny, thirty- foot yacht off the shore of Toulon, but he was found killed, with precise shots to the chest, alongside his twin daughters, aged nine, shot with equal precision. Our director decided that this occurrence constituted overkill, so I released Ms Aarons to go her way and deploy her considerable talents elsewhere. Children are not guilty, they should be spared, if at all possible. So, our connection to Ms Aarons was terminated."

That was because she was being busy getting her nursing certificate and landing a job in John's surgery, were the first thoughts that came to Sherlock's mind, but to what purpose, now that he knew the whole MARY-Janine-Moriarty angle!

"Did you try to keep any sort of eye on her after parting ways? Surely someone that dangerous would have been tracked at least for a time."

"Sorry Monsieur Holmes, she went off grid almost immediately. We had her tracked for about 2 days with no information. She didn't go anywhere or talk to anyone for nearly 48 hours. The last 2 hours of that, she left her flat in Paris, boarded the Metro at Châtelet-Les Halles and took it down to the stop at Gare de l'Est train station. She arrived at the main lobby, then disappeared. We checked everything including the date/time stamp on the CCTV's. Nothing was out of the ordinary or out of order. We even had people check the floor for hidden trap doors and the likes. We continued to monitor for her but nothing showed up until she arrived with a carry cot that we assumed had a baby in it. She was off grid almost as soon as she was on grid."

"Thank you Monsieur Ganimard. At last check she was in Bray Dunes taking a little nap in a quaint restaurant called La Voile Bleue. I suspect that she and her little entourage should be waking up shortly. Monsieur Leblanc, we need to be off in haste. I have transportation I must catch." Sherlock got up and made his way towards the exit not really caring if Monsieur Leblanc followed. He needed to catch the ferry from Calais to Dover. He knew that Mary and Janine would be waking up from their little nap soon. He also wanted to try to connect with Anthea for the return trip home. He wanted his goddaughter as safe as humanly possible. 

Monsieur Leblanc followed in haste not wanting his transportation destroyed worse than crazy driving would already provide. He knew that Sherlock would probably want to take the wheel this time already knowing the route back to the faster sports car. He had figured correctly as Sherlock was standing on the driver's side. "Keys please. I will drive faster even if you know the roads better. I need to get to Calais." Leblanc tossed the keys to Sherlock before getting in on the passenger side. Sherlock had the car in gear and taking off before Leblanc even had his door closed and seat belt buckled. He barely managed to stay in the car as Sherlock tore down the roadway back towards Calais. 

Sherlock turned onto A16 flipping a switch he had noticed in his brief wait for Leblanc to catch up. Lights and sirens started blaring thus allowing Sherlock to bypass any toll they came across. He did not have time for that little delay. Sherlock sped up the car to 180 km/h allowing him to get to Calais in about 40 minutes instead of just over an hour. He slowed down as he got into the city while still speeding through it to get to the docks. He raced to the ferries catching sight of Anthea's car. She was waiting in line to board as the ferry was ushering off the last of its passengers from the previous trip. He turned off the lights and sirens and pulled his car up next to hers confirming that he indeed had the correct car. He rolled down his window tapping on hers startling her slightly. He gave her a big grin. Sherlock put the car in park, hopped out and quickly made his way over to the passenger side of Anthea's car hopping in. Leblanc quickly switched seats and proceeded to move his car out of the way leaving Sherlock to continue his quest.

"Anthea, I'm sorry I startled you so, but I got all the information I needed from Mary's past handler, so I came to give you an update and then continue my mission here," he explained, looking to check that the baby was still slumbering quietly. That benzodiazepines concoction he and Bill Wiggins had come up with on the run-up for last Christmas worked like a charm! 

"And what are your plans now, Mr Holmes?"

"You are to convey all the information Monsieur Ganimard gave to me considering Mary, since I was recording our conversation at the time without his knowledge, a very trusting bunch these DGSE fellows, to my brother, the same way you deliver the baby to John for safe-keeping. The work I have to complete for them sounds rather tedious: finding a Minister's mistress an all that sort of thing! Get yourself all sorted out, be prepared to protect Sheralyn with your life, and expect updates any day at any time, since I don't know how long it may take me to help Lestrade's French colleagues. At least, they are more effusive in their praise, which is always a balm to one's ego, even if it's all flummery!"

"Right! What shall I do once I'm in Britain?" 

"Hand Sheralyn back to Dr Watson, ensure that my brother continues his surveillance of them both, as any good PA would do, and resume your duties. In the meantime, I have a disappearance to clear up, not to mention a wrathful Mary and Janine to dodge, when they come to their senses. Safe trip and all that!" He pecked her on the cheek, saw her blush a bit under her flawless make-up and got out of the car to go back to Monsieur Ganimard and the woes of the DGSE and the Paris police. After all, a locked room mystery had always attracted him! 

Anthea boarded the ferry for Dover, England. Once aboard she again found a quiet mostly hidden corner where she could see most of her section of the ferry. She settled down with the still sleeping Sheralyn not sure how long the baby would sleep before waking. She had about 2 hours before reaching British soil and another 2 hours to London before she and the baby were in Mycroft's safety. She tried to keep herself looking busy while keeping an eye on what was going around her. She was OK with children but was not one to have to watch them for long periods of time. She would be thankful when this portion of her job was done.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was being debriefed by the two French agents on the young woman's disappearance as they drove south to Reims on the A36 and then took the autoroute to reach Malmaison, a quiet little town near Paris, famous for having been the favourite dwelling of Josephine, Empress of the French, who loved roses and had kept a rose garden there. Strange how he hadn't deleted that tidbit, since he was only interested in history as it concerned famous crimes: he especially liked to delve into the unsolved ones as a mental exercise, and the French had had some 'causes célèbres' over the centuries! 

It seemed that the young lady who had vanished had been entertaining the Minister and a couple of friends, when, after coffee had been served, she had excused herself to go to freshen up and had never returned. The Gendarmerie had been summoned, and it was ascertained that the bathroom had been locked from the inside, but the door was apparently the only means of exit, the window being too high up and with bars on the outside. 

Monsieur Ganimard provided Sherlock with the photographic evidence in their file, but, as usual, he wanted to look the place over for himself. 

After a long and monotonous trip, during which Anthea should have reached Dover and started on the road to London, they reached Malmaison very late in the evening. The two agents offered to take him to a hotel to rest, and he accepted only grudgingly, since he could see how tired they looked. If it had been Lestrade or Donovan who had made the suggestion, they would have received the usual tongue-lashing for presuming that he couldn't function without sleep. But there was always Mycroft's admonition in the back of his mind to treat the French more delicately; so, although he wanted nothing better than to be taken to the Minister's villa and look the place over, he allowed himself to be taken to a nearby motel. 

They took their travelling gear out of the car, located their rooms, and then the French agents wished him a good night and retired. 

Sherlock didn't altogether dislike this little pause, because he had to order all the information about Mary which he had perceived himself and which had been supplied by the French. He took off his jacket and shoes and lay on the bed , which was surprisingly comfortable, to think. 

The next thing he knew was Monsieur Ganimard knocking on his door asking if he would like to join them for breakfast. He had been more tired than he would like to admit, after all. Calling out that he would be with them in ten minutes, he rushed to the bathroom, washed up as much as possible, plugged in his electric razor for a very hasty shave, and tried to comb his hair into some semblance of order. 

Then he went to join Ganimard and LeBlanc for a cafe au lait and a truly delicious fresh chocolate croissant. Tea was not to be countenanced in France that he knew from past experience! 

They also had a bit of interesting information to impart: Mary and Janine had left their hideout, had been picked up quite by chance on a traffic camera, and were being followed. Apparently, they were heading for the Belgian border. 

But that wasn't the order of business today: he had to solve the French case and get back to John and the baby the soonest possible. He knew that Anthea was a first-class agent, quite apart from her other remarkable quality of being able to put up with his brother on a daily basis, but he wouldn't rest easy until he received confirmation that she and Sheralyn were back under his brother's protection.   
He harried the two Frenchmen into finishing breakfast and getting to the crime scene. 

The villa was a 19th century construction full of marble stairs and decorative panels on the walls of the reception area and the dining room, as well as luxurious bed chambers with four-poster beds and a bit of gilding on the cornices. But the bathroom had been modernised, probably upgraded from a former lady's day room, so it included a Jacuzzi and a marble bathtub as well as the usual fixtures. One thing that caught his attention was a large, glass-fronted wardrobe, which was built into one of the walls, so it hadn't been removed during the refurbishment. When he tried to open it, he found it was locked. 

"Who holds the key to this?" he asked the two agents. They shrugged: "Probably the housekeeper," ventured Monsieur Ganimard. 

"Could you please tell her to come up and bring the key? Also, I would like to have a blueprint of the changes made to the villa, as well as a copy of the original building plans." 

"I'm not sure Monsieur le Ministre would like us snooping into his affairs in that way," replied Monsieur LeBlanc. 

This raised Sherlock's hackles: they wanted him to solve the problem but weren't willing to do his bidding! 

"Gentlemen, you are two of the most busy men in this country, and in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any continuation of this discussion would be a waste of time!"

Both Frenchmen stiffened at the not-so-veiled insult, but he couldn't care less: they either co-operated fully, or he would excuse himself and leave. They locked glances, and he won the blinking contest: LeBlanc turned on his heel and pushed the button that would summon the serving staff.

When the housekeeper arrived, the portly middle-aged woman was able to confirm that the building itself dated from the eighteenth century, when it had been a simple hunting lodge, but had had the distinction of housing king Louis XV himself, when he visited the area on his way back to Versailles. Since the two places lay at practically opposite sides of Paris, it made eminent good sense that the king, famous for his excesses in all matters, would have had his mistress of the day brought to him in the lodge. Sherlock, more than ever, wanted to get his hands on the blueprints of the renovations made. That antique wardrobe drew him like a magnet. Still, he had to try: "Madame, do you, by any chance, have the keys to the glass-fronted wardrobe in the bathroom?"

"Certainly, Monsieur, but it's just an airing cabinet for linen and towels now."

"Nevertheless, I would like to have a look inside, if you would be so kind."

"Certainly, Monsieur, I shall fetch the key immediately," she replied and returned shortly after with a gold-planted key in her hands.

The four of them got back into the bathroom, where she used the key to open the wardrobe. Both doors were made of glass set in deep millions, it was thick and of a peculiar shade of blue that was evidence of its great antiquity. It was so roomy that had it not been packed with bed sheets, pillow cases and all sorts of towels in their respective shelves, a man could very well stand upright in it with perfect comfort.

Sherlock went about examining the interior with his pocket lens and the help of his pen flashlight. After a great deal of moving stuff around, having discovered in the process that the shelves were adjustable, obviously a modern addition, he came across a notch in the wood. When he pressed his finger on it a little panel slid back, revealing a small button. He gave one of his little chortled of triumph and turned to the two agents: "Well, gentlemen, there's your answer. The lady disappeared of her own volition. You should put all her friends and relatives under surveillance to discover with whom she has taken shelter from what was a rather abusive relationship."

All three looked at him as if he were speaking an alien language and not perfectly accented French!

Heaving yet another sigh, Sherlock turned to them: "Just look at it! This button should engage a very old mechanism for getting in and out of this room. It wasn't always a bathroom, it must have served as a day or dressing room for the lady of the house, and since there's incontrovertible evidence that the lady in question could not have escaped through the barred window, she must have escaped in the same way that the king's mistress was brought into the villa, namely by this route!" he explained and pushed the button. 

One panel of the wardrobe opened to reveal a narrow passage beyond. 

"That passage must be at least ten metres deep to connect it safely to the outside world, with a length that leads just outside the perimeter wall, so about a hundred metres. King Louis must have received the visit of his mistress in the hunting lodge through this tunnel. Gentlemen, get some torches and let's see where this leads."

The two agents made themselves ready to follow him down the steps of this peculiar tunnel, armed with powerful torches thanks to the housekeeper, since his pen light would never have sufficed. 

Sherlock had to stoop, since the tunnel wasn't meant for six-foot tall men but much more petite figures, but he led the way with an assured pace and a near certainty of what he would find on the other side: barely a three on his scale, but anything to please the head of the DGSE and keep Mycroft off his back! 

When they reached the end of the tunnel, they found an ancient-looking mechanism that operated with levers. Sherlock handled them until they turned obligingly, leading them into the basement of a disused barn. There were signs of a recent human presence in the disturbed clusters of hay on the rotting wooden floor, indicating the passage of a person rather recently. He pointed them out, and Ganimard couldn't restrain himself from asking: "How, in God's name, Monsieur Sholmes, did you know it would be here?"

"Elementary, Monsieur, it could not have been anywhere else, given the circumstances of the disappearance! Now, I would suggest a little bit of refreshment while you detail your discovery to your chief of operations, and then a swift trip to the nearest aeroport, so I can get back to London. There are so many loose threads that need my attention at this point; they would give you a proper headache to unravel!"

"Oui Monsieur Holmes. We will get you there straight away." With that the gentlemen went back to the house to return the torches before heading back to the meeting with the chief of operations. 

Before long Sherlock was back on a plane heading for his beloved London and Gatwick Airport. He made contact with his brother to arrange a pickup at the airport as he made his way to the charter plane in Le Touquet. Now he was sitting back in the small Cessna enjoying the short flight over the English Channel or so he thought.


End file.
